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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

G arrett parked behind his uncle’s truck in the driveway.

Dean was here? There were no other cars in sight. Would Aspen have parked in the detached garage? Only if she planned to stay.

But Garrett doubted she’d gone to the trouble.

Maybe Dean was waiting for her too? But his pickup was empty.

Had they gone somewhere together?

That didn’t make sense, but Garrett couldn’t come up with another explanation.

Cote’d already climbed from the cruiser and was halfway up the walk, his gun unholstered and at the ready, by the time Garrett caught up with him.

He turned and leveled a hard stare at Garrett. “Get back in your truck. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

Garrett turned that way as if he’d comply.

As soon as Cote disappeared inside, he crept that direction. If Aspen was in danger, he wasn’t about to sit in his pickup and hope Cote could handle it. Stupid, maybe. But two people he loved were involved in this. He needed to know what was going on.

He heard Cote’s voice but couldn’t make out the quiet words through the storm door. Then Cote yelled, “McCarthy, get in here.”

Garrett bounded up the steps and into the house. He froze at the threshold.

Uncle Dean was seated on the sectional.

But he wasn’t seated. He was slumped forward, his shirt stained red.

Cote said something, but Garrett couldn’t make out the words over the roaring in his ears.

“Jesus.” He felt unable to formulate more of a prayer than that as he rounded the sectional and crouched down beside his uncle. He touched his neck and felt a pulse.

“He’s alive. Help me!”

“Ambulance is on the way. Lay him flat and try to stanch the bleeding.” Cote moved up the stairs, gun still out, and disappeared from sight.

Garrett got Dean on his stomach, then snatched one of Aspen’s throw blankets from the back of the sofa and pressed it to the wound on Dean’s back. “I’m here, Uncle. You’re going to be okay.”

He’d literally been stabbed in the back. Sounds came from his mouth, but nothing Garrett could make out.

“Don’t talk. Try to open your eyes.”

Based on the stains on the white sofa, he’d lost a lot of blood. A lot of blood.

The blanket, a cheap fleece number, soaked it up. “Uncle, are you with me? Don’t give up.”

Dean spoke again, his words so quiet Garrett couldn’t hear.

“Save your energy.”

But he was trying to say something. Keeping pressure on the wound, Garrett angled his ear toward his uncle’s mouth.

“Wasn’t her.”

Wasn’t who? And then he realized… “Aspen? Of course not.” Why would he say that? Aspen wouldn’t… But this was her house, and her car was gone.

“Wasn’t her.”

“Who did this?” Garrett asked.

But Uncle Dean didn’t say anything more.

“You have to fight.” Garrett’s words were loud in the silence. “Deborah needs you. I need you. Please, don’t die.” Garrett leaned down and felt faint breath against his cheek.

Please, Jesus, please, Jesus, please, Jesus.

He couldn’t lose Dean. He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you asked me to. I love you.”

Cote hurried back down the stairs. “She’s not here. Place is empty. What is she driving?”

“Aspen didn’t do it. Dean just said?—”

“What was she driving!”

“I don’t know! A rental, I think.”

Cote spoke into his radio, but Garrett couldn’t focus on the words. His uncle’s life was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sirens sounded, and a moment later, paramedics streamed into the room.

A hand gripped Garrett and pulled him out of the way.

“It’s okay.” The voice was familiar. Garrett focused on the man’s face. Thomas. His friend. A volunteer fireman. And paramedic. “We got this.”

Thomas all but pushed Garrett to the other side of the room, then hurried back to Dean’s side.

Garrett couldn’t move, just stared as people surrounded his uncle. Furniture was moved. A gurney brought in. Dean transferred. They were in the ambulance and screaming out of the driveway within minutes.

Garrett headed for his truck, but Cote stopped him with a hand on his arm. He tried to yank away, but Cote didn’t let up his grip. For an old, out-of-shape man, he was surprisingly strong.

“You don’t know what Aspen was driving? You’re sure. She didn’t give you any idea?—?”

“We haven’t talked since last night. She was getting the rental this morning, but I haven’t talked to her since then.” He took a breath, let the question fully enter his brain. “Grace probably took her to get the car. Maybe she knows. She’d know where?—”

“What’s her number?”

Garrett pulled out his phone, navigated to Grace’s contact information, and held it out for Cote.

He lifted his own cell, then swore. “Where’s the house phone?”

“Kitchen.”

Cote started that direction.

“Dean just told me she didn’t do it.”

Cote reached the door that led to the kitchen but glanced back. “What did he say exactly?”

“He said, ‘Wasn’t her.’”

Cote nodded. “You’re sure? Because?—”

“He said it twice. ‘Wasn’t her.’”

The police chief looked around at the cops who’d streamed into the place. He seemed to be considering that. “Okay.” He leveled his gaze at Garrett again. “If that’s the case, then somebody else was here. Somebody was here. And she’s not. Which means?—”

“She’s in danger.”

“Either she’s a murderer, or she’s in the hands of one.” He stepped into the kitchen. A uniformed officer followed, and Garrett did a moment later.

A lamp, one Aspen had bought at Trudy’s the week before, lay on the floor. The uniformed officer crouched beside it. “That’s blood,” he said.

Blood.

Aspen’s blood?

Another uniformed police officer came in through the back door. “No sign anybody’s been out there. Garage is empty.”

Garrett stayed out of the way, hoping to hear something that would give him hope.

Cote had Aspen’s house phone pressed to his ear as he crouched down. He was talking to Grace, but Garrett didn’t pay attention to his words.

Pieces of ice and glass littered the floor, all resting in water. Someone had dropped a glass of water and made no effort to clean it up.

Two sets of wet footprints led from the kitchen and through the breakfast room. Two sets. Aspen’s and someone else’s. Garrett followed them into the living area and to the front door.

A uniformed cop had already seen the footprints. Garrett watched him as he stood from where he’d bent over the faintest ones on the stoop, then walked down the three steps to the walkway, gazing at the driveway.

The snow had started as flurries when they’d been headed up the mountain, but it had picked up. This storm was predicted to be a doozie, dropping a foot or more across the state before it was finished. The flakes were already sticking to the cold asphalt. Any tracks that might’ve been there would be covered up in minutes.

Aspen was out there, somewhere.

He swiveled when he overheard Cote speaking into his radio, ordering an APB on a car, presumably Aspen’s.

Did he really think she’d done this?

When Garrett had followed Cote up the mountain, he hadn’t passed any cars headed down. If Dean had only been stabbed minutes before, then that meant Aspen and her captor must have gone the other direction.

Cote could have cops all over the state looking for Aspen’s car, but they weren’t going to find it. Because her car wasn’t heading toward civilization but away.

He pushed out the front door and down the three steps, where he spoke to the uniformed cop who still stood there. “They had to have gone up the mountain.”

The man nodded. “We’ll find her. Wasn’t that your uncle?”

Garrett recognized the cop as someone he’d gone to school with. He nodded.

“We’ve already notified your aunt. Why don’t you head to the hospital? Give me your number, and I’ll call you when we find the person who did this.”

That made sense. Deborah would need him. If the worst happened, if Dean didn’t pull through, Deborah would need him all the more.

Garrett pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to the cop, Gladstone, according to the name tag on his uniform. Gladstone gripped the card, but Garrett didn’t let go.

“Aspen Kincaid, the woman who lives here”—he leveled his gaze at the man—“she didn’t do it. My uncle said it wasn’t her.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Maybe, but when? When would they start looking for her? At the moment, they seemed more intent on figuring out what had happened than they were on finding whoever had attacked Aspen and Dean. “She didn’t do it. She’s not a danger to anybody. She’s in danger.”

“I understand.”

Did he? Or was he placating him?

The cop tugged the card. “Go on to the hospital, Garrett. We’ll be in touch.”

Sure they would. But to tell him what?

Garrett let go of his business card and jogged to his pickup.

He should be with Deborah. She needed him.

But Aspen.

Police cars had blocked him in. He engaged the four-wheel drive, yanked his wheel to the side, and drove across the snow-covered yard.

While he bounced over the terrain, he debated. Left to town and the hospital? Or right to Aspen?

As soon as his wheels hit pavement, he yanked the wheel to the right.

Dean had paramedics and EMTs and nurses and doctors and Deborah.

Aspen had nobody. Nobody who cared enough to find her. Nobody who believed in her. Nobody but Garrett.

And You, Lord. Protect her. Lead me to her.