Sheriff Fletcher.
John is penniless and desperate, and he turned to the only friend he has left.
Of course, Fletcher’s involved. I counted it.
He won’t offer up John’s location easily, but I’ll give him no choice.
Ice hardens my muscles. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything but lust.
Lust for blood.
I’m intoxicated by the need to slowly, callously eliminate every person who earned my wrath. The potency of it crystallizes my blood and solidifies my veins.
“We’ll get her back.” Conor touches my thigh and yanks her hand back when she feels the inhuman rigidness in it.
When I reach the ranch, I park, enter the house, and stride to the bedroom. Single-minded and reined in, I don’t slow down or take detours.
“What happened?” Jarret runs toward me.
My jaw is a steel frame of lethal teeth, trapping the gnawing, relentless need to crush bone and sinew.
In the bedroom, I gather guns, ammo, blades, and other gear while mentally mapping how each weapon will be used.
Raina embeds the very air in this space, but I don’t look around. I can’t. It would run a knife through my heart and debilitate me.
When I have everything I need, I take steady, efficient steps to the truck, my mind anchored on the next stop.
The sheriff’s house.
On my way out, I breeze past the conversation in the foyer. Jake must be updating Jarret and Maybe on what happened.
As I tread onto the front porch, Jake shouts, “I’m going with you.”
Good. I need him.
“I’m going, too.” Conor says.
“No, you’re not,” Jake and Jarret growl at the same time.
I’d lock my sister in the tack room before I’d let her come with me. Wouldn’t be the first time.
I leave them to work it out and climb into my truck.
Jake doesn’t make me wait.
“Jarret’s staying with Conor and Maybe.” He slides in beside me and stows his pistol.
As I pull out and drive toward Fletcher’s, I center my mind and prepare to risk everything.
Halfway there, I break the silence.
“I’m going for zero.” I meet Jake’s gaze. “Zero warning. Zero mercy. Zero survivors.”
Except my family. The six of us will survive.
For the rest of the drive, I lay out the plan and what I expect from Jake.
He listens with his eyes closed and pulls in a long, shuddering breath. When I finish, he refocuses on me, resolution forging his jaw.
I enter Fletcher’s neighborhood from the back side and park a few streets away from his house. We walk to his front porch, and his SUV isn’t in the driveway.
As planned, we beat him home from work.
Jake knocks, and I let him navigate the manners and niceties. He tells Fletcher’s wife, Mary, we want to catch up with her husband. They go back and forth. She wants to call Fletcher. Jake says not to rush him.
No calls. No warnings. We need the element of surprise.
When Jake flashes the smile that always works on my sister, that’s all it takes.
Mary invites us in and seals her fate.
We gather around the kitchen table, where she feeds us buttery biscuits and coffee. Jake does most of the talking, keeping the conversation light and nonthreatening. She tells us stories about going to school with our mothers. I maintain a civilized exterior and feel nothing for this woman. I can’t feel. My humanity is dormant. It has to be if I want my family to survive this.
Jake steers the discussion back to topics on weather, vacations, and town gossip.
And we wait.
After an hour of teeth-grinding chitchat, panic creeps in. Plaguing images. Gruesome thoughts. My mind pulls into a vortex of despair for the woman I miss with my entire being.
The things John is doing to her… I don’t have to imagine it. I’ve seen the kind of dark brutality that lurks within a rapist. I was forced to watch it in the ravine.
That experience prepared me for the agony that festers in me now. I freeze out the burning impulses with cold reasoning. Emotions must be kept under strict control. The only way I’m getting Raina back is with icy precision and a clear head.
Eventually, Fletcher’s SUV sounds in the driveway. Jake remains at the table. I stand with Mary as she moves to the counter to pour her husband a cup of coffee.
I hold out my mug for a refill so she’s not suspicious of my hovering.
As she fills it, Fletcher strolls into the kitchen and stops.
His knees lock in the brown uniform pants. Tendons stand out behind the buttoned collar. His lips pale beneath the gray mustache, and his hand hovers over the gun at his hip.
His fear shows itself in that split second and disappears just as quickly.
“Good evening, boys.” He removes the brown triple brim hat, with the obnoxious gold acorn cords and badge, and sets it on the table. His gaze slides to Mary, looking her over for signs of distress, then returns to me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”