“Yes.”
“Chance?”
“Dead,” the tall man with the scar said from where he stood near the bed.
“Shot himself and Hope,” Luke said. “You have to get Summer out.”
“Where is she?” Detective Dawson asked.
“She’s in the box. There’s a key somewhere, on the table I think.”
“Luke, your hand.” Nick was staring at it.
“Find something to pull the nail out,” he ordered.
“I don’t want to make it worse.”
“I don’t care, just get it out. Now. How is she?” he asked Detective Dawson as the man unlocked the padlock of the box and opened the lid.
Carefully he leaned inside and a moment later he had scooped Summer up and was lifting her out and laying her out on the floor. She was dirty, her hair was a tangled mess, her clothes were torn, and she smelled, but she was still the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Detective Dawson didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed his fingers to Summer’s neck, then said, “I need blankets, and what’s the ETA on the ambulance?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen tops,” Detective Bennett replied.
“Careful of her arm, he broke it,” Luke said as the detective wrapped Summer in the blankets someone had fetched. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s in shock, but she’ll be fine.” Detective Dawson smiled reassuringly at him.
“Get that nail out,” he told his brother.
Nick held a hammer in his hand and Luke couldn’t help but shiver at the sight of it. “Are you sure?” Nick asked.
“Positive.”
“All right then, don’t move.”
Detective Greer wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then placed a steadying hand on his wrist.
A tug, a quick slicing pain through his hand, and the nail was out. Not feeling quite steady enough to try standing, Luke shuffled on his knees to Summer’s side, then carefully gathered her into his arms.
“Summer?” He touched his lips to her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, he needed contact with her like he needed to breathe. “It’s Luke. You’re safe now. We’re safe. You need to wake up, you're scaring me. Please, open your eyes,” he whispered as he rocked her gently from side to side.
“Luke?” her voice was so soft it was barely more than a breath.
“Right here, baby, right here,” he assured her, holding her tighter.
“I thought we were going to die.”
“Me too.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and held them there.
“But we’re okay.” Her eyes opened slowly.
“We’re okay,” he agreed.
Her eyes grew watery. “Chance killed Hope.”
“He did.” She tried to move to look around him at the bed, but he stopped her. “Don’t look at it. And this time listen to me when I say that,” he admonished.