“Wasn’t I?”
Carson doesn’t answer, but there’s another rattle deep in his chest. It’s terrible and horrifying and more than enough to get me going. I rock back on my heels, looking for Griff. We have to call the police. We have to call an ambulance—Carson’s fingers seize my wrist, haul me closer.
That’s when I notice his jacket. It’s the same leather jacket that guy from the SUV wore. Carson was at the car accident. Carson tried to kidnap me.
I gape. “It was you. Why?”
“Leverage. You know he’s coming for you, don’t you?” The detective smells of sweat and urine and blood, and when he closes his mouth to swallow, he gags. Carson’s grip slackens. His eyes go flat, vacant.
“We need to call an ambulance,” I manage and I can barely squeeze the words past the roaring in my head. “We need help.”
“We need to get out of here.” Griff grabs my arm, bandages flexing. “An ambulance can’t fix dead. Let’s go!”
“We can’t leave him like this!”
Griff tenses, swings his head to the left. “Did you hear that?”
He tugs at me again and I struggle to my feet. “I don’t—”
I do. A car door just slammed. I suck in a breath as Griff disappears down the hallway again, sticking close to the wall.
Another slam. It’s not from one of the neighboring houses though. It’s closer. Like right out front.
My heart leaps behind my teeth as Griff spins, charges toward me. He hooks one arm around my waist and hauls me to him. “Run. It’s Hart. He’s found us.”
Griff shoves through the back door and I match him stride for stride. We dash across the yard and we’re just past the tree line when I hear the first shout.
“Go!” Griff drops back a stride and pushes me forward. Two more shouts behind us. We tear through someone’s yard and I hit their fence at a dead run, scramble over the top, and land with my legs pumping.
Another shout.
And a crash.
Are they coming after us? I glance behind me and nearly trip. No good. Keep going. I hurl myself across the next fence, my stomach scraping painfully across the chain link top.
My sneakers kick dirt into the air, but my lungs are already burning. I can barely breathe. I move my feet faster. I am not getting caught because I spent too many hours behind those damn computers instead of in gym class.
Griff grabs my arm and yanks me sideways, almost off my feet.
“But—” I splutter. The car is that way. Escape is that way.
Griff hauls me between two trailers, curves one hand against the top of my head, protecting me as we crawl underneath someone’s porch, scramble until we reach the trailer’s metal skirting. Griff leans against the trailer and tugs me closer and closer until I’m pinned between his knees, my shoulders against his chest. He braces one forearm along my collarbone, I press my head against his cheek, and in the shadows, we wait.
But we don’t have to wait long.
Two men tear through the yard. They’re fast black blurs against the humid green. Watching them through the spaces in the porch steps makes the whole thing feel like a movie.
Or a nightmare.
“We can’t stay here,” I whisper. I’m breathing through my mouth because everything around us smells like damp dirt. It’s like I tunneled inside a grave.
Griff’s chin brushes against my hair in a nod. We can’t look at each other. We can’t take our eyes off the yard.
One of the men whips back through, stops, looks around. It’s the town car driver—the second one, the one who showed up after Hart and I were attacked. He spends a moment watching the woods he just came from. Then he studies the yard.
Then he notices the trailers.
“Shit,” Griff breathes. “Come here.”
He leans to one side, taking me with him. Our hips and shoulders connect with the ground, and for a second, I freeze. He’s taking us under the trailer, shimmying us through a small space in the trailer’s skirting. We push past spiderwebs, going deeper into the dark. The trailer’s floor is inches above my head and something crunches under my hand. I whimper.
“You can do this,” Griff whispers. The words lift sticky hair from my neck, make me shiver even though it’s stupid hot under here. There’s a single patch of sunlight on the dirt and I focus on it as Griff repeats, “You can do this. You can do this. You can—”
The scuffle is soft, but it keeps getting closer. Footsteps. He’s coming for a closer look.
Scuffle. Scuffle.
Stop.
39
He’s standing by the porch and I hold hold hold my breath. Is he bending down? Is he looking underneath? Does he see the hole we crawled into?
He does. A shadow slides into that square of late afternoon light and I grind my teeth together to keep myself from breathing. I desperately need to, but I don’t dare. I don’t trust myself not to gasp.