Her nerves coiled as she put the truck into motion. In a few moments, she would finally come face to face with the one person she knew better than anyone in the world.
The first few seconds would be critical. He would either listen to her introduction or shoot her in the head.
She’d discarded all her identification because she didn’t want him investigating her without talking to her. It would be safer for her and everyone in her life if she defused his anger before giving him too much information.
Navigating along the bumpy terrain, she white-knuckled the steering wheel and swallowed her rising trepidation. There were no roads or tracks. Every landmark looked the same, from the tufts of desert growth to the steep, flat-top hills. It was a wonder she’d found this place the first time.
When the one-story adobe brick building came into view, her entire body began to shake. Adrenaline flooded her system, her senses firing on high alert.
He kept company with a gang of violent criminals and could’ve brought a few of those terrifying friends along. Except she knew he wouldn’t. In his rage, he would regard her as his problem, one he’d created, a horrible mistake he needed to clean up.
Tomas Dine—complicated man and lone wolf—would walk through hell to resolve his dilemmas on his own.
What concerned her was that while she knew him, he didn’t know her. She was the stranger.
From his perspective, she was the enemy.
Sweeping her gaze over the abandoned house, she found it just as creepy and unkempt as the first time she visited. An old tractor rusted on rotting tires in the unfertilized, parched soil. A windmill canted off-balance, missing most of its blades.
Heavy drapes covered the small square windows. The satellite dish on the roof appeared to be in working condition. But was the electricity on to power it?
Nothing had changed. No vehicles. No signs of life.
Her heart sank.
She drove a wide circuit around the house, surveying the lot from all angles. If Tommy were here, he’d hiked in or caught a ride.
Returning to the front of the property, she parked the truck, shut off the engine, and… Holy shit. The front door stood open. No way had she missed that a minute ago. It had been shut. She was sure of it.
Her pulse exploded, her gaze darting back and forth, probing the windows, the perimeter, searching for movement.
Nothing.
He was inside the house.
The jacket that once belonged to Caroline Milton sat on the seat beside her. She grabbed it and slowly stepped out, her boots crunching the baked dirt. Her palms slicked with sweat, her stomach a wasteland of nauseating energy.
Despite the covered windows, she felt eyes on her as she tramped across the trackless sand to the door. The hair on her arms rose at the unnerving feeling of being watched. Whispers of dust spun up beneath her feet. And the hush… It was deafening, thrashing in her ears.
If she screamed, no one would hear. If he fired a gun, no one would come. If he buried her body out here, no one would know where to look.
Any outsider would think she was batshit crazy for walking in alone, unarmed, and without a phone. Maybe she was crazy. But she trusted her instinct. Her training and in-depth understanding of Tommy’s personality had guided her here. Her wits and intuition would keep her alive.
“Tommy,” she called out a few feet from the door. “I’m alone.”
Silence greeted her.
He’d often mentioned how the unfathomable quiet served as a protective barrier around his home. When something penetrated the stillness, he heard it. No one could sneak onto his property.
No doubt he’d detected her approach long before she’d driven into view. She’d anticipated that. Just like she knew the left floorboard would groan when she entered the house. She knew a small kitchen sat off to one side, opening to the sitting room where his mother lost her fight to cancer.
Two bedrooms in the back shared the bathroom between them, and a problematic hole above the shower let in geckos and scorpions. He’d patched it dozens of times, and the creatures still found a way in.
She knew every nook and cranny of his childhood home, thanks to his detailed descriptions over the years. So many dreams had been conjured within these walls. So many hopes crushed. But not forgotten. He chased their shadows through the rooms, the ghosts of those he loved, which was why he hadn’t set it afire like the Milton’s home.
“I’m not armed.” She held up her hands and stepped over the threshold into darkness. “This is Caroline’s jacket. Since you don’t have any of her possessions, I thought you’d want this. I’m just going to set it down.”
A track of clean wood gleamed along the otherwise dusty floor, tracing a path from the threshold to somewhere beyond the shadows. A trail recently made by footsteps. She toed the dust layer around it, noting the thickness. No one had moved outside that track for months. Probably years.