Page 2 of Blood (A Killer’s Love #4)
CHAPTER TWO
Kaleb
The truck rumbles beneath me as I slow to a stop. The turn to my parents’ cabin taunts me from the driver’s side mirror. Shifting into reverse, I spin the wheel quickly and release the brake.
I need to get off this road without being seen. It’s not easy in a vehicle this big, but I’m a good driver. That’s why I get first choice of the big deliveries. My lips tug up when a memory of Christopher Cromwell teaching me how to drive flashes through my mind.
“If you can’t do it well, don’t do it.” It was his motto for our lessons.
After checking my mirrors again, darkness greets me in the lane. Good .
Pride and panic flow through me as I maneuver the truck onto and down the small dirt road. Large trees stretch high on both sides.
Private and quiet. Perfect for our family weekends. And an ambush.
Whoever is responsible has no idea what they’re in for.
Every single member of my family had better be okay. Not a hair out of place. But I know what killers do. My fear spikes, and my imagination spirals again.
Flicking the headlights off just before the house comes into view, I slow the truck to a stop.
This is it.
Swallowing hard, I grip my knife handle.
My palm is sweating as I climb down from the truck.
Shadows engulf me as I run along the edge of the forest. The road suddenly feels twice the usual length until I reach where four cars are parked.
Not recognizing the black Ford, I head straight for it.
With my body bent over, I remain low, using my parents’ and Samantha’s cars for cover.
Sneaking around to the front, I place my hand on the hood of the Ford . . . cold.
I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s been almost four hours and two hundred and twelve unanswered calls since I got the 911 text.
The weapon in my hand shakes, and my heart gives another sharp squeeze. If anything has happened to my family, I’m going to gut the people responsible, no matter how many have to die tonight. With any luck, they’ll take me with them.
Bile rises in my throat.
The Cromwells taught me what it is to be a family. Helen and Samantha Cromwell taught me how to love and be loved. My brothers showed me what true loyalty looks like, and Dad . . . he proved that fists and fear aren’t needed to run a household.
Taking the porch steps two at a time, I hurry to the door.
The blade of my knife catches the light streaming through the glass of the front door.
Lace covers the small window, blocking my view inside, but heavy footsteps sound out.
Someone just walked from the kitchen to the living room, where the front door will open.
Time for quiet and sneaky is gone. My family is in this house. The knife spins in my hand, nerves ruling me. Anyone who gets between me and them fucking dies.
Tossing the knife a hundred and eighty degrees, I catch it in my fist, the back of my hand closer to the blade.
With one last deep breath, I turn off my brain and get ready to react on instinct. I clench my right fist tightly, and with a flick of my left hand, I shove the front door open.