This wasn’t her blood.
It was then that she heard the slow gurgle, the sparse intake of breath followed by a low, throaty whisper: “Avery, you have to help me.”
Avery stared at the figure lying in front of her, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Please.”
The word came out in a desperate hiss, and he clasped a muddy, blood-caked hand around her wrist, his grip limp, his fingers trembling.
She gasped. “Fletcher?”
About the Author
Hannah Jayne decided to be an author in the second grade. She couldn’t spell and had terrible ideas but kept at it and many (many) years and nearly twenty books later, she gets to live her dream and mainly does it in her pajamas.
She lives with her rock star husband and their three overweight cats in the San Francisco Bay Area, always on the lookout for a good mystery, a good story, or a great adventure.