June 7, 10:30 p.m.
I stare down at my phone, numb. “Brooke,” I say.
“What?” Brooke asks.
“Do you have the gun I gave you?”
I hear her take a sharp breath. “Yes.”
Have they already tortured the information out of Will? Do they know Duke’s dying? Do they know where he is?
Are they already on their way to Burney?
Heat sparks under my skin, an angry red crawling up my neck. I want to scream. But I grit my teeth instead.
“Listen to me carefully,” I tell her. “You stay in Duke’s room. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in. Not even the nurses. Do you understand?”
“Are they coming?” she asks.
The guilt; it’s overwhelming. I put her there, a sitting duck. If they find out Duke’s dying, they’ll come.
They’ll come for all of us.
I’m not sure Brooke has it in her to pull the trigger. She’s good. She’s kind.
She’ll get killed if they come. I’ll get her killed.
Will might already be dead.
My entire body shudders. Everything’s falling apart around me. I had a plan.
And it’s failed. I’ve failed. Dread and fear, mixed together, rise in my stomach.
“They have Will,” I say.
“Oh, God.”
“Get the gun. Lock the door. Wait for me.” Please, please, let it be enough. Please let him hold strong.
But you torture a man the right way, he’ll crack open like an egg. I know this. I’ve seen it. I’ve been taught how to do it.
“What are you going to do?” Brooke asks.
I look down at Bobby’s text.
“I’m going to get him back,” I say.
It’s a promise to myself. A vow that I won’t go back on.
I’m not like Duke—Will isn’t the only person I have left to love. But he is the one person I’d throw everything away for. Unfortunately, Bobby Springfield figured that out.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll get him back. And Brooke? If they come…”
“Shoot to kill,” she finishes for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” she responds. “I made my choice.”
I know both of us are wondering if it was the right one.
“I’ll call you as soon as it’s safe,” I say.
She hangs up. I close my eyes and picture her, huddling in Duke’s room, lights off, waiting, unable to escape.
When I open my eyes, that photo of Will stares back at me.
I did this.
I scream. Busy scrambles away from the sound, and I can’t even be bothered to soothe her. I lash out, punching the steering wheel with my left hand. My knuckles split open, and I don’t even feel it. My hand bleeds, and I don’t even care. My throat aches, and I just keep screaming.
Calm, Harley-girl.
I can hear his voice in my head, and all I can think is Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You left me. You stranded me in a den of fucking wolves. You gave me no way out.
My voice gives way, my hand goes numb, and finally, finally, I am still.
Busy whines next to me, nudging my side, lapping at my bloody knuckles.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to breathe. I want to cry—if there was any time for tears, this is it—but they don’t come.
My instinct is to find a way out rather than to feel.
Will might already be dead. If I just show up at the address Bobby gave me, I’m dead, too.
They know I’m coming.
I grab my phone, pulling up the address on the map. It’s a storage facility.
One gated entrance and exit. Long rows of buildings, lots of paths and corners to hide, no one there late at night. They bribe security to look the other way, and it’s the ideal place.
They have all the advantage. I can’t change that.
That means I need all the leverage.
I get out of the Chevy and grab my box of guns from the toolbox, loading them methodically. I place two in the cab and two more under my seat. My fingers trace the barrel of my favorite revolver. It was Momma’s. A twentieth birthday present from Duke.
It’ll be fitting to use it now.
I am going to crush Bobby Springfield like a cockroach under my boot. Bennet, too, for going along with this insanity. Clearly, Jessa’s love is not enough.
If they’ve left any permanent marks on Will, I’m going to wipe their entire family off the face of the earth, like Carl tried with mine.
But where he failed, I’ll succeed.
I climb back into the truck, shutting the door, still holding Momma’s revolver.
God help them if they stand in my way.
The house is small and gray, set down the road from the gas station. There are no other buildings around, no neighbors to hear.
It’s perfect.
I park at the curb a few houses down the street, get my gun, and leave Busy in the truck.
There’s a light on in the back of the house, and I crouch low, circling to the rear door.
She’s in the kitchen. I can see her through the window, her dark hair falling down her face as she scrubs the dirty dinner plates.
I test the doorknob. It’s unlocked.
Stepping inside, I can see the shadows of a washer and dryer. I’m in the laundry room. A shaft of light falls ahead.
Quietly, I move to the doorway, flattening myself against the wall, and peer around the corner.
Her back’s to me, the water running. She’s humming, a song I don’t recognize.
I move fast. I close the space between us in two seconds. My gun barrel’s against the back of her head before she even catches my reflection in the window.
She goes very still, her hands still immersed in the sink, hidden by the soapy water. Caroline Springfield’s gaze rises to the window to meet mine in the reflection.
“Harley,” she says. Her voice is steady.
I press the barrel harder against her head. “Caroline.”
“You wanna tell me what you’re doing?”
“You wanna let go of the knife and show me your hands?” I shoot back. I don’t know how much she knows. Is she in on it, too? I want to say no. This woman is responsible for the uneasy peace between our families, and I’ve always admired her for it. For having the nerve to march right into the Tropics and barter for her boy’s safety.
Except now her boys are fucking with my life. So I’m not taking any risks.
She slowly raises her empty hands out of the water. Soapsuds drip down her arm, but she doesn’t shake.
She could go for me, try to knock the gun out of my hand, but she knows it’s a bad idea. Caroline’s smart—smarter than the rest of her family.
Which is why she just gets to the point. “What is this about?”
“Your boys,” I say. “They took something of mine. You’re gonna help me get it back.”