Page 98 of The Thinnest Air

GREER

Day Eleven

A blazing flashlight blinds me the second the door swings open. Squeezing my eyes, I turn my face to the side.

“Jesus.” A man rushes to my side. “Found her, Robbins.”

“No.” I shake my head, my vision still adjusting as a gray-haired man in jeans and a thick down jacket comes into sight. “I’m not Meredith.”

“Greer Ambrose?” he asks.

I sit up straighter, confused. Nobody knew I was here. “Yes?”

“I’m Agent Berwick.” He snips the flex-cuffs before helping me stand. My bones ache, my muscles stiff. “Your sister’s been found.”

Your sister’s been found.

My heart drops. “Oh, God.”

“She’s fine. A little dehydrated, a little traumatized. But she’s fine.” He loops his arm around my shoulders. “She told us you were with him, tipped us off that he was on his way back from Vermont. We’ve been following you since Salt Lake City this morning.”

My hand cups my mouth as he leads me through the small, musty house and out the front door. An unmarked Suburban is parked behind two county patrol cars, but I don’t see anyone else.

“Where’s my sister?” I ask when we step outside.

“Unity Grace Hospital, few miles into town,” he answers, peering over his shoulder as he rushes me to the back of his car.

“Where’s Ronan?” I ask. “Ronan McCormack. He did this. He’s responsible for this.”

“We’re aware, ma’am,” he says, grabbing the door. “Watch your head.”

“Where is he?”

“Took off on foot after he answered the door and realized who we were and why we were there. We’ve got two guys on him. He won’t get far in this snow. And if he does, the cougars will get him before sunrise.”

He chuckles. I can’t tell if he’s kidding.

The idea of wild animals tearing him limb from limb might bring me great satisfaction if I weren’t so fucking terrified of that monster being on the loose.

Drawing in an icy breath, I let it go, trusting that they’re going to nail him one way or another. They’re on his heels. They won’t let him get away.

Berwick hands me a flannel blanket once I’m situated in the back seat, and I wrap it around my shoulders.

“You thirsty?” he asks.

I nod.

Ducking into the front seat, he retrieves a thermos. Unscrewing the lid, he pours it halfway full of steaming coffee before handing it over.

It’s cheap. Store brand, probably. But the strong scent comforts me.

And I think of Harris.

“Harris Collier ...,” I begin to say.

“What about him?” he asks.

My gaze narrows. “Was he with my sister?”