At the back of the drugstore’s parking lot, I see a horse-drawn buggy with a traditional canopy. The entire thing is decorated in red, white, and blue streamers for the parade. A teenage boy hovers beside it nervously, watching everything around him. His eyes go wide with fear when I approach, gun in hand.
“I’m not here to hurt you. Fifty bucks to let me borrow your ride.” I drag a bill from my pocket.
The kid swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. “I-I can’t. It’s my grandpa’s. I promised I’d bring it back.”
“A hundred bucks for ten minutes. I won’t take it far.” We have to get out of the vicinity. It’s about a mile to my truck. Once we’re there, we can get anywhere.
The teenager opens his mouth to reply, then his stare falls on Sophie. And his eyes go wide with recognition. “Oh, my god! You’re—”
“Keep it quiet,” I hiss.
“Please.” Sophie grabs his hands. “I need to get out of here safely.”
“I’ll take you,” he insists in a rush, head bobbing.
My first instinct is to refuse. I don’t want to risk this kid with so much life in front of him, but if he won’t lend me his buggy and I don’t have another way out of this place, I have to compromise.
“You’re sure?” I ask. “It could be dangerous.”
“I-I’m not afraid.”
Clearly, he is and doesn’t want to seem scared in front of Sophie.
“You don’t have to play hero, kid.”
He scowls at me. “My name is Dustin, and I just turned eighteen.”
So he’s touchy about being an adult. Got it.
I hold up my hands. “Sorry. Your call.”
Maybe this kid’s stubbornness is a good thing. If the shooter sees him, he has no reason to connect Dustin with us.
Sophie squeezes his fingers. “You don’t have to get involved.”
“Were the shots for you?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’ve got an idea.” The guy bends down and flips up a lid to a compartment tucked beneath, then produces a blanket. He hands it to me. “You can cover up with this.”
It’s a hundred fucking degrees out here, but it’s another way to hide. “Good thinking.” I give Dustin the intersection where my truck is parked. “Get us as close as you can.” I turn to Sophie. “Up you go.”
She nods, and I help her into the buggy. When she’s settled on the black leather seat, I hop in beside her, spread the blanket over us, and urge her to hunker down. I pull the blanket over our heads as the teenager hops onto the driver’s seat and gives the reins a flick.
The horse takes off, and the buggy clambers down the street, maneuvering between terrorized dads, stricken mothers, and crying kids still running for their lives. I hear the terror in their rapid footfalls.
“I got this,” Dustin assures. “Sit back.”
There’s nothing else we can do.
I turn to Sophie. She’s still breathing hard. It’s hot and humid as fuck under this scrap of wool. Our faces are inches apart. Her lips are softly parted. Her breath is sweet. Her stare is direct.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“Do you?” I counter. “Have you received any death threats?”
“Not recently. Nothing credible, anyway.”
But the fact she’s received them at all is unnerving. Why would anyone want to hurt Sophie?
“Can you think of a reason anyone would have anything against you?”
“Except angry moms who chastise me for not singing wholesome music anymore or stalkers berating me for swinging my hips and singing about sex because they’re convinced I belong to them, no.”
What a creepy world she lives in. I can’t imagine people feeling so entitled or delusional that, despite being strangers, they genuinely believe they get to tell an artist how to do their job. But I’m not shocked. There are a lot of unhinged loons who have never learned to accept the word no.
“But no specific threats recently?”
“Unless David knows something I don’t, no.”
She brings up an interesting point, and I’ll get to him later, but for now I just nod. “Did you have another appearance scheduled tonight?”
“No. I’m on a break until the album drops next month.”
Good. She’s less likely to be missed, so that gives us more time to get to the bottom of this.
Then she bites her lip, mouth pressing into a grim line that tells me she’s fighting tears. “I’m afraid.”
She’s right to be.
I squeeze her hand. “Ever been shot at?”
“No.” And the look on her face tells me she wonders why anyone would want her dead.
“You’ve never been a threat, so this kind of malice makes no sense to you.”
She nods. “I’ve only tried to make the world a happier place with my songs.”
At that, she falls apart. It’s not unexpected. She feels betrayed by violence coming from people she tried to entertain. Plus, the adrenaline crash is a bitch.
Against me, her whole body trembles. I press her closer and wrap an arm around her. I don’t say anything. Empty reassurances are pointless. I can’t promise her I can get her out of this mess in one piece; I can only promise to try my damnedest.