46. Chapter 46
Chapter 46
Ethan
I rush out of my office, not even stopping to lock the door. If anyone wants to rob me, they're free to try. I'll kill them later. Now, I have to get to Kayla as fast as I can, because I have a terrible feeling something is wrong.
Why would Georgia text for help, then not pick up the phone? What would a young mother be doing in the worst part of the town, in a house that's been empty for the last fifteen years? It makes no sense.
I still haven't been able to find Adams, and the possibility that he's behind this is like a block of ice in my stomach. If he hurts Kayla…
Shaking my head, I push the thought aside. I can't think about that or I'll lose my mind. I can't—"Oh!"
Too busy to watch where I'm going, I crash into someone the second I step out onto the street. My phone slips out of my hand, clattering on the sidewalk, and hot coffee soaks the front of my shirt.
"Shit! Ethan? Oh fuck, I'm sorry, man." It's David Butterman, the man who beat me at the Bluebell Bullseye Legends final a few weeks ago. Also a man I usually call my friend, when he isn't bumping into me and showering me with scalding liquids.
"Fuck, are you okay?" David asks, staring at my wet chest. "It wasn't too hot, was it?"
"No," I grunt, even though it was. "It's fine, David." I pick up my phone and frown at the shattered screen. It won't turn on.
David runs a hand through his hair. "Damn, that's done for, isn't it? I'm so fucking sorry, Ethan. I'll pay for a new one. This was totally my fault. I wasn't looking. Just let me know when you get a new one, and I'll—"
"It's fine." It's not, but I don't have time to discuss a broken phone right now. "Forget it, David. I'm sorry, but I really have to go." Sliding the dead phone into my pocket, I circle my car and open the driver's door.
"It's not fine," David argues. He bends down to pick up his now empty coffee cup. Instead of standing back up, he drops onto his knees and peers under my car. "Hey, Ethan? I think you're leaking oil."
I crouch beside the car, irritated by yet another delay. Ice-cold dread replaces my irritation as I watch a pearl of clear liquid gather at a cut in a black rubber hose and drop into a sizable puddle below. "That's not oil," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "That's break fluid."
If I got into that car, I could have died, but that's not what's causing my voice to tremble. It's fear for Kayla, visceral and all-consuming.
The hose was cut on purpose, and whoever did it either wanted me dead or away from Kayla. Kayla, who's been lured into an abandoned house and who most certainly didn't listen to my instructions about waiting in the fucking car.
"Jesus Christ, man." David shakes his head, his eyes wide like saucers. "Good thing I ran into you, then."
"Yeah," I rasp. It was a good thing. But now I have no car and Kayla is in danger. "I need your truck, David."
"My truck?"
Some of my darkness must be showing through my carefully maintained exterior because David steps back, his eyes widening even further. "Yes, your truck." I do my best to sound calm even though all I want is to scream.
If I have to, I'll punch him and steal his car keys, but I'd rather avoid that. David is the closest thing I have to a friend, and I don't want to hurt him, especially since he might have just saved my life. "Please, David. Have I ever asked you for anything? I need to be somewhere, and I need to be there fast. Give me the keys."
"Okay, okay." He takes forever to pull his keys out of his pocket and drop them into my outstretched hand. "Is something wrong, Ethan? I can come with you if—"
"No," I reply even as I sprint off to where I see the black hood of his truck. "Call a tow truck for me, will you?"
The tires squeal as I gun the gas and make a sharp U-turn. Fortunately, I looked up the address as I was coming down from my office, so I know where to go even without a GPS. I can't call Kayla, though.
Can't check on her, can't tell her to absolutely not get out of her car. And—I curse out loud as I realize this—I don't have a gun. Mine is stashed in the glove compartment of my car, but of course, David's glove compartment only contains the usual clutter. Random receipts, a Snickers bar, a broken pencil, some change. A dart with a broken flight.
I pocket the dart. It doesn't exactly count as a weapon, but perhaps I can use it as a distraction.
With the gas pedal on the floor, I run a stop sign and swerve my way between two cars, ignoring the furious honking. I don't have time for fucking stop signs. I need to get Kayla before it's too late.