The dirt road forks, and the dirt gets a little wetter—like it’s rained out this way recently. I’m going so slow, I can hear the river rushing through the trees somewhere nearby.
Matt seems nice, like a normal guy. A good ole boy. I hope he really is.
Finally, I see my signal: a large, brown mailbox tacked onto the side of a towering oak. The road forks yet again. I veer right, and the sound of the rushing river amplifies. A black bird flies overhead, sailing up into the fluffy, white clouds then dipping down, where he soars ahead of my car.
I drive between a few pecan trees, and there it is: an elegant brick mansion situated in the middle of a lush, green pasture. There’s a spacious porch, overflowing with plants and rocking chairs, plus four stately, round, white columns. Classic Southern plantation digs.
This is nice.
Like... really nice.
I strain to see how many cars are parked in front, but there are too many trees to get a count. I drive slowly, telling myself that if it seems sketchy, I can simply turn around and leave.
When I get to the end of the drive, I see two cars, plus a motorcycle. The porch is scattered with white rocking chairs, topped by ceiling fans, and framed by big azalea bushes. Maybe the safe house is owned by a little old lady.
I spot a humming bird feeder hanging from the limb of a mid-sized Maple tree, and that seals the deal for me. This place is fine. I’m going in. I park my car beside an SUV with our school’s sticker on the back and spend a moment finger-brushing my hair.
Then I grab my bag, step out onto the red dirt ground, and walk up to the porch. I’ve got a little .357 Taurus tucked into my jeans pocket. I’d hate to use it, but I’m a good shot, and I need to be able to protect myself if Matt’s friends turn out to be creepers.
I hold my breath and ring the doorbell.
Panic swells in my throat. What kind of people live so far out by the river? My eyes are searching through the glass panes framing the sleek wood door, looking into a wide, hardwood hallway for Matt’s round face and redneck clothes.
As I’m watching for him, something comes over my eyes. Hands. I whirl. I try to whirl, but my captor does that for me, spinning me on my heels as my hand flails for my gun. “What the—”
“Cleo Whatley.” The hand moves. I blink at—KELLAN WALSH!
“Oh fuck.”
I try to change my course of action—what I want to do is run—but my hand is already in motion. I’ve grabbed my gun and I can’t seem to stop my arm’s trajectory. The nose of my Taurus comes in line with Kellan’s collarbone.
His eyes don’t even widen. He rips the gun from my hand like a professional fighter.
His face is hard as he snatches my wrists, thrusts them over my head, and uses his legs and his free arm to nudge me toward the door. I don’t even see him open it before I’m jerked through doorway.
“What are—”
“Quiet,” he snarls.
The next few minutes are surreal. My dazed mind marvels at how strong and deft he is as I am dragged down a high-gloss, hardwood hallway that runs alongside an elaborate staircase. Better Homes & Gardens comes to life around me as I’m spirited through a flawless kitchen and hauled into an enormous living area with top-notch furnishings, Oriental rugs, and yawning ceilings striped with exposed wood beams and long, glass skylights.
He sets me on my feet behind a white suede couch, still holding my wrists tight enough to bruise. It’s weird to see Perfect Kellan look so... furious.
Fuck, he’s glaring daggers at me.
“Where is Matt?” I screech, jerking against his hold.
Who would have thought that pretty face could be so cold? I hold his gaze, praying it will soften. When it doesn’t, my heart throbs sickly. “Let me go!”
He shakes his head and locks his jaw. “I want an explanation, Cleo.”
“What are you doing here?” I bleat.
“This is my house.”
I’M BREATHING HARD AND FAST, like I just snorted something. With my arms above my head and his angry face so close to mine, I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes.
“W-what do you mean... your house?”