“Be careful,” I yell after him. I close the door and am frozen. I don’t know what to do.
Pack food.
I dart to the kitchen and start throwing things in bags. Milk, water bottles, bread, peanut butter. I hand bag after bag to Morrigan, who runs them out to my car. Time crawls. What is taking so long? I run for blankets, ripping them off the beds, and grab a few clothes for Morrigan.
The front door opens and my heart stops. Brent rushes in, still carrying the shovel. “Let’s go.”
The garage door smoothly moves up its tracks, and I catch my breath at the depth of the snow. He also dug out a section of the driveway where the snow had formed big drifts. No wonder it took so long. “Farther out the road is better,” he tells me as he throws the shovel on the stack of blankets and food in the back of my car.
We both move to the driver’s door and halt, our frantic gazes colliding. I want to drive, my motherly instinct roaring to protect my child. But he holds out his hand and I drop the key on his palm. My inner tiger growls in protest, but I know because of his profession that his driving skills are likely better than mine.
He backs out of the garage. My little car protests but handles beautifully. He winds out to the main road of the estate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of blue among the trees.
The glass of Brent’s window shatters as I hear the crack of the rifle. Warm spray covers my face and Morrigan shrieks.
Brent slumps forward, held in place by his seatbelt, and the car stops.
His forehead is gone. His face is covered with blood that flows into his lap.
He is dead.
I stare, my heart numb at the sight of my friend.
My fault. He wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t helped us.
I can’t breathe. No time to stop. No time to mourn. Keep going.
I block out Morrigan’s screams and peer through Brent’s shattered window.
Fifty yards away, Gabriel stands. His feet are planted wide and his rifle points at me.
“Morrigan, get down!”
Another shot hits the back driver’s-side window, and Morrigan’s shrieks are deafening. I grab the wheel and shove Brent’s body against his door. His head rolls loosely on his neck and hangs out his window. My stomach heaving, I maneuver until I straddle the center console and my foot reaches the gas pedal. I push Brent’s leg out of my way and gently press the gas, fighting an overwhelming urge to stomp on it. The car moves forward and I awkwardly steer.
Gabriel moves parallel with the road, struggling to jog in the snow with his rifle. The car slowly pulls ahead and my heart pounding in my ears drowns out my daughter’s sobs. She is crouched on the floor behind the passenger seat. I press harder on the gas pedal and some of the tires start to spin. I let up, terrified of getting stuck, and struggle to see the road. Everything is covered in a thick layer of white, and the edges of the drive aren’t clear. I aim for the widest flat area and pray the road is beneath.
I risk a look in his direction. He’s still a ways back but substantially closer to the road, and my terror jerks the steering wheel.
My car turns and the front right wheel sinks, nearly putting me through the windshield as the car buries its grille in the snow. I stomp on the gas; the tires spin and the motor revs shrilly. We don’t move. I shift the gearshift between my legs into reverse and press the gas again. The car jumps back six inches, stops, and the tires spin again.
I’ve never wished harder for a gun in my life.
“Mama?”
“Stay down. Don’t move.” My mind races. Do we run? I see no other alternative. I won’t sit here and wait to be shot. I lunge back into the passenger seat and fling open the door, rolling out into the snow. Scrambling on my hands and knees, I open Morrigan’s door and pull her into the deep fluff.
“We’re going to run that way,” I said, pointing away from the car. “Don’t look back.” I don’t want her to look at him.
My daughter nods, and her eyes are wet, but she starts to run and I follow, placing my body between her and Gabriel.
She is slow. Too slow. I glance over my shoulder and he has nearly reached my car.
“Go, Morrigan. Keep going,” I pant. I can feel a target on my back.
He’ll have to go through me to get my daughter.
The rumble of an engine sounds to our left and Christian’s old Hummer speeds toward us, snow flying from his tires. I pull Morrigan behind a tree, clutching her tight to me. I risk a peek around the trunk and estimate we’re fifty feet from the car. Christian stops next to my Subaru while Gabriel runs in the opposite direction. Coward.
Christian jumps down from his seat, his gaze locked on Brent’s bloody form. He looks to me and I point at the running figure, unable to speak, let alone shout for him to hear me. As he turns, I see the rifle in his hands.
My blood runs cold. I made a wrong assumption about my father. Did I make one about Christian too? Have I traded one killer for another?
He rests his elbows on the hood, sighting the rifle after the escaping figure. I collapse on the safe side of the tree and close my eyes. It’s not Christian. I wait for the shot, but it doesn’t come. I look around the tree again and see Christian staring at the retreating figure. Why didn’t he shoot? He looks back at me.
“Are you okay?” he shouts.
I have no energy to answer. I nod. He slowly treks through the snow to us, his rifle over his shoulder.
My skin crawls as I look at the gun. My uncertainty returns. Morrigan squirms in my death grip. “Let me go, Mama! Christian!” He raises a hand to acknowledge her, his steps steadily bringing him closer.
Is he coming to kill us? Terrified of what I might smell, I shakily inhale through my nose.
Warm scents of earth reach me. Salt from the ocean. His usual scents.
I weep in relief. There is also a sour fear and anger, but it is not directed at us.
He crouches next to us in the snow and Morrigan lunges at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. I ache to do the same, but I can’t move. All my stamina is gone. His eyes are serious as he studies me. “What happened to Brent?”
“Gabriel shot him,” I whisper. “We were next.”
He is silent, a struggle in his gaze. He pulls off his gloves, melts some snow in his bare hands, and then applies the moisture to my face, using his glove as a cloth. Brent’s blood. I look at my jacket. It is black, but spots shine where the blood—and worse—landed.
He continues to wash my face. “I’m so sorry, Salome.”
“Did you see him?”
“I did. I saw him through the scope.” He paused. “I couldn’t fire.”
“I understand. He’s your brother. But we have to keep going. I can’t stop.”
“I won’t let him find you.”
“He already did.”
He takes my hand and holds it against his heart. “I didn’t know. I truly didn’t know it was him. I would have never brought you here if I’d known.”
“Why did he do it? Why kill your father . . .”
“I don’t know.”
Odors of lies float between us, and my heart sinks.
We leave Brent where he died.
“I’ll come back for him,” promises Christian. “But I need to get you two to safety first. Nothing more can happen to him.”
I hear his unspoken words. But much, much more can happen to you and Morrigan.
I know Christian has an idea why Gabriel hunted me, but he is silent. We drive. We don’t stop at his glorious home. We leave it far behind us. Hopefully Gabriel has been left far behind too.