“Baptiste?” I say.
His shoulders jerk just enough for me to know I’ve guessed right.
“Where’s Sidra?” I ask.
“That’s my question to you,” he says, in a voice that carries the accent of those raised in the Second Settlement. “What have you done with my wife?”
“Nothing,” I say. “We came looking for you. We’re with Felicity.”
“Felicity?” Baptiste spits, and his gaze turns on me. “She took Sidra, didn’t she? Dragging her back to that grandfather of hers. If I—”
Petra flies at him. She dives at his legs, knocking him back. The gun fires. Not a rifle but a shotgun blast.
“Casey!” Dalton’s voice slams through the forest.
“Gun down!” I shout, as much for Dalton as for them, to let him know I’m fine. “Put the goddamn gun—”
“I’ve got it,” Petra says. “We’re both fine, no thanks to this idiot.”
“And no thanks to the idiot who jumped a kid with a shotgun,” I say as I walk over.
“I didn’t expect him to have his finger on the trigger.”
“In the real world, people often do. We aren’t all government-trained secret agents.”
“I’m not…” Petra trails off, shaking her head.
“Not government trained?” I say.
She only rolls her eyes and holds out the shotgun. I walk past her to where pellets peppered a tree. I dig one out.
A buckshot pellet.
Just like the one that killed Ellen.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I turn to Baptiste. He’s about eighteen. Brown eyes. Dark curls cut in a mop that makes him look like the puppy-cute guy in a boy band. He’s trying very hard to play this cool, setting his jaw and hardening his eyes, but those eyes don’t have the life experience to harden. He reminds me of every kid I questioned who got caught up in a petty crime with his friends, struggling to play it tough while two seconds from breaking down and admitting he’s made a huge mistake, but he’ll take the punishment, just please don’t call his parents.
Dalton comes at a run, calling a warning before he bursts through, as if we wouldn’t hear him. Baptiste gives a start as Storm races past.
“She’s a dog,” I say, patting her head. “Eric, this is—”
“You!” Baptiste spins on Felicity, who’s trailing Dalton. “What did you do with Sidra? Did you take Summer, too? I swear if you hurt either of them…”
Summer.
The baby’s name is Summer.
That throws me enough that it takes a moment for me to react, and Dalton beats me to it, grabbing Baptiste’s shoulder as he advances on Felicity. Even then, my brain throws up excuses. Maybe Summer is a friend. Or a pet.
Yes, Casey, they have a pet dog named Summer, and this isn’t Abby’s father. It’s pure coincidence that their dog is also, apparently, missing.
Dalton’s hand tightens on Baptiste’s shoulder. “You see those guns pointed at you, kid? Those mean ‘Don’t move.’”
“Just like the one you had pointed at me,” Petra says.
“You moved,” he says.