“This is going to happen, Wick.”
Yes, it is. I clench the branch harder, force myself to wait, will my hands to stop shaking. They don’t. I’m a breath away from crying. I don’t trust myself to breathe. I’m afraid I’ll sob. Then Ian moves sideways and I think I’m wrong. He hasn’t spotted me at all. We’re close—close enough to touch—but he’s looking toward the road, like he thinks I’m heading there.
Wait for it. Wait for it, I think. You know how to play the role of prey.
And suddenly it’s like Todd and my dad are both here, whispering my name. Ian leaps toward me and I swing the branch.
Connect.
His screams fill the air. I raise the branch again, start to bring it down, and pain courses through me, flying down my nerve endings.
It stops.
I’m facedown in the dirt now. Somewhere I can hear a low whimper and it takes me a second to realize it’s me. A fist knots in my hair, yanking me onto my back, and Ian crouches down, pinning my shoulder with his knee.
Getupgetup! Don’t let him get on top of you. You won’t get up again.
Too late. I want to laugh as he sticks his face close to mine, stares into my eyes. I am always too late.
There’s a bite of pain on the side of my face. What—a blade. He’s pressing a knife into my cheek and blood runs down in a warm wave.
Ian rubs his thumb against my lips. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen, Wick. I thought we could’ve had something good together. I get you—even if you don’t want to see it.”
My hands scrabble in the dirt around us, finding nothing. No rocks. Not my damn branch. There has to be something.
Then Ian’s hip touches mine and I feel the Taser’s hard plastic corner.
“What do you think, Wick?” Ian draws the blade down toward my mouth. “Should I give you a smile before I go? Or can you smile for me all on your own?”
I can. I do. I smile at Ian as my fingers close on the Taser’s handle. I twist it up hard, pressing it into Ian’s stomach and holding down the trigger until the cops follow our screams.
48
What’s worse than sitting in a cop car? Sitting in an ambulance.
Where the hell is Carson? I shrug off the blanket the EMTs gave me. Yeah, I haven’t stopped shaking, but wearing it around my shoulders makes me feel like a flood victim.
“Miss?” The EMT stops checking my pulse and glares at me. He looks familiar. Name on his shirt says Morris. Huh. Either I hit my head way harder than I thought or this is the same EMT from five months ago.
“If you could just hold still?” Morris asks through gritted teeth.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re not fine. You might be after they get stitches into your cheek. I doubt it though. Your pupils are uneven. You’re probably concussed—”
“I feel okay.”
“You Tasered yourself.”
“And also the bad guy.” I give Morris a stinging, bright smile and he ignores me, dumping extra bandages into a plastic tub he shoves under one of the bench seats.
“Stay put.” He points a finger between my eyes. “The detectives are going to want to speak with you before we go to the hospital. Do. Not. Move. Understand?”
Definitely the same guy from last time.
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
Morris’s hands flex once before he walks to the front of the ambulance, leaving me to stare at the gathering crowd and debate my next move or, rather, lack of moves. I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to Bren. None. Next to my thigh, something buzzes.
What the . . . oh. That’s right. Morris put his cell down while we were washing the blood off my face . . . only that’s Milo’s number flashing on the caller ID.
I look up, searching the faces on the other side of the police tape. No Milo. I rub one hand along the back of my neck. Now really isn’t the time for a heart-to-heart—especially on someone else’s cell.
The call rolls to voice mail and, seconds later, Milo calls again. I stick my head around the side of the ambulance. Morris is nowhere in sight.
I pick up the phone, sliding the pad of my thumb along the screen to answer. “Neat trick.”
“Isn’t it? I’ll teach you how to do it if you like.”
“Maybe. It’s almost as neat as figuring out I was at Bay’s house.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Apparently I have another concussion . . . and I may need stitches.”
“Jesus, Wick—”
“How did you know I was at Bay’s?”
Silence.
I grip the cell harder. Surely, he didn’t . . . “Milo!”