Peyton and Libby are standing at the bar watching the television when I join them, my gaze moving to the screen to see what they’re so entranced by. It only takes a glance at the news segment playing to send my heart catapulting into my throat.
Police are looking for the driver of this vehicle in connection with the murder of Casey Purcell. Purcell’s body was found under a bridge in Charlottesville, Virginia and authorities would like to speak with the driver of this 1996 Toyota 4Runnner. Due to poor video footage, authorities were unable to make out the license plate, but they do know the vehicle was gray and believe a female operated the vehicle. Investigators have also retrieved evidence they’re using to aid in locating the owner of the vehicle. If you have any information, please contact . . .
The words are drowned out by the beating of my own heart. Evidence retrieved? What evidence? I didn’t murder Casey, but that doesn’t mean I want to go in for questioning. How would I explain how I found her? It’s highly unlikely they would believe Casey’s soul directed me there. Shit. I thought I had been careful.
“You okay, Char?” Libby asks, laying a hand on my shoulder, making me jolt.
“Uh, yeah,” I shake my head and swallow. “Think I just need a break.” My fourth table is just getting up, and I know now is the perfect time for that break after I check my other two tables, making sure they have everything they need and their drinks are full. I don’t smoke, but I head to the back, planning on getting some fresh air where Anna and I chatted the other night.
“Where are you sneaking off to, love?” Sniper calls.
“Just taking a quick break,” I answer.
“Be careful out back by yourself, Char,” Greg warns. “Make sure you leave the door open so if you need us, we can hear you.”
That’s a strange warning. Is this town dangerous for women? My expression must indicate my thoughts because Sniper explains, “Greg used to be a police officer in Chicago. I can’t seem to make him understand that Warm Springs is nothing like Chicago.”
“Always better to be safe than sorry,” Greg adds as he tosses the vegetables in the frying pan he’s holding.
“I appreciate your concern, Greg.” I smile. “Thank you.”
When I take my first step to head out back, Ike morphs in front of me and my heart nearly bursts from my chest as I stumble back. Goddamn it, I’m going to kill him if he doesn’t stop doing this shit to me. But my plans for his demise are quickly obliterated when his wide panicked eyes meet mine.
“What is it?” I ask instinctively.
“I didn’t say anything,” Sniper says, as he eyes me suspiciously.
“It’s George,” Ike practically pants.
“Where is he?” I ask, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck standing on end.
“Where’s who?” Sniper asks.
“Where’s George?” I add, still focusing on Ike.
“Out back. Misty’s boyfriend and his brother just showed up and beat the fuck out of him.” Ike turns his head to the back door.
“Shit,” I hiss.
“Are you okay, love?” Sniper asks as he takes a hesitant step toward me.
“Sniper. I need you. Follow me,” I call as I bolt to the back.
“Watch the line, Greg,” Sniper orders as he hurries behind me. Greg steps in and takes over.
“What the hell is going on?” Sniper asks as he trails behind me.
I don’t answer. Instead, I burst through the back door, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t even think about the fact Roger was back in town after seeing him at the dance. Shit! I didn’t look out for George like I was supposed to. Now he’s hurt, and it’s all my fault.
When we hit the pavement, we find George motionless on the ground, blood covering his shirt and face. “Shit,” I breathe.
“What the fuck?” Sniper bellows as he pushes past me and runs to George. I follow behind him and kneel beside George. His face is already swollen, his cheek bubbled up, his lip busted open and bleeding.
“That mother fuck . . .” Sniper growls aloud, but doesn’t finish. He lays George on his back, stretching him out.
“We’re trained for this. Sniper knows what to do,” Ike assures me as he stands over us, arms crossed, concern painted across his face.
The night air is slightly humid from all the rain, enough to make anyone sweat, but I’m perspiring profusely; my shirt is clinging to my back and strands of my loose hair are stuck to my neck and forehead. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted to out George so maybe it would separate him and Misty. I thought Sniper and I, together—albeit Sniper had no idea this was happening—could stop George from getting hurt.
“Is he okay?” I ask, reaching my hands out, wanting to touch George but unsure if I should or even where I should touch him.