Page 37

MERIT

The good humor in Holt’s voice jars me. It’s completely out of place and completely foreign for the moment. He just doesn’t know it yet. “Mer? What’d you break now?”

I flop around on the ground, stumbling to get up. Blood is already dripping down my face, pooling on my oversized T-shirt.

There’s a dizziness making me sick, making me unstable.

Walking from the back, Holt’s eyes widen when he sees me. Concern and worry etch into his face, marring its beauty. Darting to my side, he wraps an arm around my waist and easily lifts me to my feet. “What happened? Are you okay?” He tugs my chin, trying to look at the side of my head. “Let me see.”

“Daire.” My croaked whisper sounds like a wounded animal.

Holt stops breathing.

Glancing at the playpen, he turns back to me when he doesn’t see our baby. I’m already taking a step in the direction of the front door, willing one foot in front of the other.

That’s all he needs.

He takes off in a mad sprint. I’ve never seen someone run so fast. Ever.

And I never will again. It’s inhuman.

It’s superhuman.

By the time I make it out the front door, all hell has broken loose. Holt’s halfway hanging out of the driver’s side door of an old SUV. It’s clear he’s trying to pull Trenton out of the car, but it’s not working. Trenton starts to drive—erratically weaving left and right, stopping and going. He finally gets traction and steps on the gas. That doesn’t stop Holt. He tries to run along with the car. Eventually, his feet start dragging, and he’s thrown. Slamming into the asphalt, he rolls a couple of times before stopping.

I’m so torn on what to look at.

Do I watch my injured husband roll across the parking lot?

Do I watch the man drive away, kidnapping my son?

Kyra’s voice echoes in the background. “What’s going on?”

Jumping up, Holt races back over. His knees look like they’ve been through a paper shredder. They’re drenched in blood and decorated with rocks. His shirt is torn, and his arms are covered in scratches and road burn. “Call the cops!” he screams, shocking the-ever-living-shit out of Kyra.

Hauling me into his arms, he races to his truck. Shoving me over the console, I tumble into the passenger seat. I’m still trying to right myself when he puts the truck in drive and yanks around the line of cars waiting for the front parking spaces at the coffee shop. He drives across the median, kicking up grass and dirt all around us. We bounce violently across the curb and push our way onto the street. Brakes squeal. Horns honk. I brace my hand against the window. Blood smears everywhere.

The SUV is two cars in front of us. Holt speeds up, not slowing down.

“Put your seat belt on,” he yells. Tugging his cell phone from his pocket, he tosses it on my lap. “Call the police.”

I have no idea how I have the coordination to call 911. But I do.

It doesn’t even feel like my fingers are connected to my body. It’s like I’m a marionette and someone else is pulling my strings, operating me, and making me move.

I don’t even let them answer before I shout into the phone. “Our son’s been kidnapped! Our son’s been kidnapped!”

Holt weaves around the traffic, trying to keep up with Trenton’s car. With a shaky hand, I buckle my seat belt while trying my best to explain what’s happening to the 911 operator. We’re running red lights and creating absolute fucking havoc. Things are happening at a speed which my brain can’t even comprehend. It’s like I’m processing the scene before me through flashes of a dream. Like short, vibrant fireworks are popping and bursting behind my eyelids every time I blink.

When a cement truck nearly plows into the side of Trenton’s SUV, I scream. I can barely hear the piercing shriek above the ringing in my own ears.

It doesn’t take long for the 911 operator to tell us to stop chasing them.

She wants us to stop chasing after our son?

Stop? Is she out of her fucking mind? That’s my son.

“Over my fucking dead body. I’m not stopping,” Holt says, leaving nothing up for debate.

The double talking is making my throbbing head split wide open. I plop the cell phone down in the cup holder. It’s on speaker, and she keeps talking; but I can’t pay any attention to what she’s saying. Not her.

I need to focus on Holt. And Daire.

He looks over at me, wild-eyed and crazed. “I’m not stopping.”

I nod. “I know.”

He takes a sharp turn, following Trenton down a service road and back onto Main Street. It doesn’t take a genius to see he’s about to hit the rural highway. It’s one of the backroads that eventually leads to a web of interstates going all over the Southeast.

“If he gets away, we will never see our son again.”

Tears stream down my face. Licking my lips, I taste salt and blood.

“Merit! Did you hear me?”

I nod, unable to speak.

“I’m not letting him out of my sight. If he gets away, we will never see Daire again. I need you to understand what that means. Do you understand? I’ll fucking wreck him into the side of a tree if I have to. Tell me you understand.”

All I can think is Daire’s not in a car seat .

Where is my baby? Is he bouncing around in there? Is he already hurt? Already dead?

“Merit!!”

“Yes! I understand!”

All of a sudden, we side swipe a car, sending it plowing into a metal guardrail separating the northbound lanes from the southbound lanes. “Shit!” Holt spins the wheel, quickly recovering. Stepping on the gas, he refuses to backdown. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He mumbles under his breath, apologizing to the lives we might’ve just hurt.

Turning in my seat, I watch steam pour from the crumpled hood of the little black car. I don’t see anyone moving.

Holy shit. What if we just killed someone?

A pickup truck tries to block our path, obviously thinking we’re a menace to society and trying to play Good Samaritan.

Holt cuts to the side, avoiding him and choosing to drive into oncoming traffic, instead. I close my eyes and grab the hanging door handle above me. A jumble of profanities vomit from Holt’s mouth. And still, I keep my eyes closed. Once I feel the jostle and dips of us passing back over the median, I open my eyes.

On the rural road, the traffic dies down, but that doesn’t stop the chase. I’m too scared to even look at the speedometer. The houses and trees lining the road are flying by me so fast, that alone tells me all I need to know.

We are reckless.

And fucking determined.

In the background, the 911 operator is still talking. Yelling, really. But I don’t have time for that.

We lose sight of Trenton’s SUV as it goes over a small hill. “Speed up!” I scream at Holt. My voice is scratchy, and it feels like my head is about to explode. My vision starts to blacken around the edges.

The nose of the truck catches up with the horizon, and before we know it, we’re right on him. Giving the gas one last punch, Holt rams into the back of Trenton’s car.

Hard. Really hard.

I slam forward in my seat. Fortunately, I’m strapped into my seat belt. That’s the only thing that stops my head from blasting against the windshield. Holt’s not so lucky. He never put his seat belt on. His head smacks against the steering wheel right as the air bags deploy. The loud pop hurts my ears.

Peeking above the pillowed device and puff of powder, I watch as Trenton’s car spins around and around, eventually coming to a stop after slamming into a concrete pillar at the threshold of a small bridge.

Fifty feet below, a swampy pile of marshlands glisten under the already-setting winter sun.

The pain of the wreck doesn’t slow Holt down. He jumps from the truck, like he doesn’t feel a thing.

The blood on his air bag tells a different story.

I fumble with my seat belt. It takes a couple of attempts before it finally releases. Stumbling from the truck, my bleeding head flings blood all over the door.

I can’t even see straight. It feels like my brain is a balloon, ready to burst. My entire face feels numb. I blink, forcing myself to focus. Trenton is already running toward Holt, with a baseball bat in his hand. He’s covered in his own blood and dragging his right leg behind him in a weird limp. Right when he swings, Holt lifts his left arm, shielding his face. The sound of the wood on Holt’s arm makes my stomach turn. I can hear his bones breaking.

I know the sound of broken arms quite well.

Holt howls in pain.

Trenton repositions himself, dragging the bat high above his head. Holt takes that split second of freedom to tackle him. Burying his shoulders into Trenton’s waist, he pushes with the force of his legs, treating Trenton like a tackle dummy, pushing him backward and backward and backward.

Refusing to drop the bat, Trenton’s hurt leg causes him to stumble over the lift of the foot curb of the bridge guardrail, throwing him off balance. Holt uses that to his advantage. Dipping low, he grabs the back of Trenton’s thighs. Screaming through the pain of a broken arm—and who knows what other damage—he flips Trenton over the side of the bridge.

My hands fly to my mouth, covering my scream.

Holt doesn’t even bother looking over the side to see where Trenton fell. Turning on his heels, he runs over to the car. Yanking open the passenger door with enough force to tear it from its hinges, he calls to our son, like Daire’s old enough to actually answer. “Daire! Daire!” If I weren’t about to die again, I’d find it funny.

The last thing I see before my world fades to black is my husband pulling the limp body of our baby from the mangled wreckage of the car.