“Call her.” My pulse quickens, and I clench my fingers on the back of her chair.
“Her phone’s on the counter.” She changes the screen to show the back room of the clinic, zooming in on the cell phone.
She returns to the view of the lawn behind the clinic. Trees encircle the area. The same woodland that once formed a canopy over the ravine.
The live feed of grass and dirt is so still it could be a photo. Nothing moves. Seconds tick by and Conor doesn’t return.
It could take minutes or longer for the dog to do its business. Even as I tell myself this, my stomach twists into a knot.
“I need to go check.” Erin stands, grabs her keys, and pauses to consider me. “I can’t leave you here.”
I’m already moving. I chase her out of the house and skid to a stop halfway to her SUV. “I’m going to run back and grab a gun.”
“No.” She glances at the screen in her hand, without slowing her swift gait. “She’s still not back, and I’m not waiting. Get in the car.”
Her usual blank expression creases, her complexion a terrible shade of pale. She’s worried.
My throat stings as I hurry into the SUV.
The only information Jake gave her about this assignment is that his abusive father has been threating Conor and me. Erin has John’s physical description, and she knows he could be armed and not working alone. But she doesn’t know how truly dangerous and cunning he is.
The clinic is only a couple of miles away, near the south pasture. Conor usually walks it or takes her motorcycle. But Jake’s been dropping her off and picking her up all week.
Erin pulls onto the road in front of the estate and takes the quickest route there, her sharp gaze darting between the screen on her lap and the windshield.
“I need you to call Jake.” She calmly lifts her phone, glances at it, and returns it to her pocket. “Never mind. There’s no signal.”
I hug an arm around my waist as painful trembling rips through me. “Do you think something happened to her?”
“I’m paid to be hyper-aware and open to every possibility.”
That’s not an answer.
She turns onto a gravel path that cuts through dense trees. Knee-high weeds grow between the tire tracks, and every bump rattles my rioting nerves.
She veers around the next corner and slams on the brakes. A few feet ahead, something lies in the road. Something human.
My muscles lock up, and my breath freezes in my chest.
Conor sprawls face down in the gravel, red hair shrouding her face, her body motionless and twisted, as if she collapsed in the middle of a sprint.
“Oh no oh no oh no.” Panic grips my spine, and my lungs slam together.
Was she running from someone? Is she hurt? Dead?
No. No, that’s not possible.
I fumble for the door handle with numb fingers.
“Stay in the car.” Erin removes a handgun from her shoulder holster and turns her flinty gaze to me. “Lock the doors and do not get out. No matter what happens. Understood?”
With a nod, I release the door handle and clap a hand over the sob crawling from my mouth.
I’m unarmed and nearing hysterics. Lorne’s paying this woman to protect me, and her cool composure is testament to the fact she knows what she’s doing.
She leaves the car running as she exits, closes the door, and trains the gun in a ready stance. I hit the locks. Then she moves.
Light footsteps, weapon sweeping with the shift of her body, she creeps toward Conor without taking her attention off the surrounding trees.
As she approaches, Conor doesn’t stir. Not a twitch.
She can’t be dead. She can’t be dead.
My mind floods with horror. Nausea grips my gut, and my ears ring with godawful pounding.
Please, Conor. Please, wake up.
Erin stops beside her but doesn’t look down. Her eyes probe and scrutinize the perimeter, the gun steady in her outstretched hands.
The span of stillness turns me inside out.
Finally, she crouches and places two fingers against Conor’s throat.
I hold my breath.
Her jaw angles toward me, and I watch her mouth form the word, Alive.
My lungs release in a great rush of relief, bringing forth a well of tears.
She stands, and her gun jerks toward the trees a millisecond before the boom of gunfire shudders the air.
The reverberation punches through me as Erin drops in a slow-falling crumple of knees, hips, shoulders. When her head hits the ground, the hole between her eyes spurts blood across the gravel.
My hand flies to my throat. My jaw locks to the point of pain, and my breaths explode in hyperventilating gasps.
A woman emerges from the tree line, gray hair pulled into a loose bun and a pistol trained on Conor’s catatonic body.
Her unfamiliar eyes lift to mine, and her thin pale lips shape the command, Get out.