Page 112 of The Ashes of Summer

And his voice answers in my own head, from a lifetime ago: you really don't wanna know.

He unlocks it and hands it to me. "Call her."

My hands shake as I find the contact.

It barely rings once.

"Sheriff, thank God you're okay."

Something ugly twists low in my stomach. The concern in her voice is immediate. Personal. My grip tightens on the phone.

"Uh—" I clear my throat. "This is Summer Miller."

"Oh my God." Her voice changes completely. "What happened?"

I glance at Jacob. His eyes have closed against the pain. "He got shot."

"What? Where?"

"His shoulder. He's awake, he's⁠—"

"Where are you?" she cuts in, sharp.

Adelaide reels off directions while I lean harder on the wound.

"Okay—closest clinic to you is Brentwood."

"Hold on." Adelaide's already stabbing at her maps with one hand. "Got it. Fifteen minutes out."

Tamara swears quietly. "I told him this would end in bloodshed."

And that lands somewhere it has no right to. Because of the way she says it—like this was always coming, like it was inevitable the second I existed.

And the worst part is she's right.

If he'd never come for me, he wouldn't be bleeding out in the back of this car.

"I'm on my way. Fast as I can." Shuffling in the background. "And Summer?"

I hesitate. "Yes?"

"Keep him awake."

The line goes dead.

I lower the phone slowly, and in the quiet a question I haven't let myself think finally surfaces.

How many men came up that mountain tonight?

All I've had room for is Jacob. Jacob bleeding. Jacob surviving. But there were others. There were always others.

I run my fingers through his hair and brace myself to ask the question. "How many men came to Rivers Ridge?"

His expression hardens. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"Summer—"