No Perfect Hero(98)

Poster paint?

My breath goes cold and still. No.

No, I’ve got to be overthinking things after nearly losing my shit at the thought of Tara disappearing. Stewart couldn’t be the one who left that blood-red threat slashed on my door. He couldn’t.

But if Bress didn’t do it, if Bress is dead...who did?

I curl my hands against the edge of the Mustang’s door. It’s the only thing keeping me from bolting. “What do you need poster paint for?” I ask warily.

And just like that, Stewart’s smile vanishes.

He looks at me like a snake, flat and unmoving. “Get in the truck,” he says tonelessly. “Got a tight schedule this evening, and I still need to get your 'stang hitched up.”

Every instinct says no. Says to run.

But...but he’s got Tara, and I can’t leave my niece alone with this man who's making every alarm bell shriek inside my head right now.

I don’t say anything, but I wish like hell I wasn’t still wearing the heels from the prison trip this morning.

Maybe I can stomp on his foot if I need to, break a toe in self-defense.

Silently, I round the truck at the rear, keeping distance between us, and climb up the extremely high footboard to heft myself into the truck. It’s so far off the ground I almost have to scramble.

I shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but I’m already thinking about what if I have to throw myself out of the vehicle while it’s moving at full speed?

Breathe, Haley.

I’m being ridiculous, I really am. It has to be the fear eating me up, but Tara's fine.

Everything’s fine.

I still hold my tongue, smoothing my hands over my dress and my heaving stomach as Stewart gets in the truck, starts it up, and maneuvers it in front of the Mustang. We don’t say a single word to each other as he hooks the Mustang up to the tow hitch on his truck, then eases onto the road, pulling my car behind us.

I keep myself as far away from him as I can, pressed against the car door and looking firmly out the window.

We’ll be in town soon. I’ll get my niece, and then I'll ask for help.

But if I call Warren, will he come? Especially when I don’t know where he’s hiding.

I can take Tara to the diner, call Warren or Ms. Wilma or even Flynn – he may be a drunk, but I think there’s the core of a nice old man underneath.

I just need to be with people I can trust, right now.

And Stewart isn’t one of them. Maybe I’m overreacting, but I know one thing.

Better safe than sorry.

Better safe than wrong. About everything.

Stewart pulls up outside Pep-Pep-Go. There’s not one single car in the lot, and the garage is closed.

The lights inside the main shop are dark, and I can’t see anyone through the windows.

Despite the bleary heat of the day, sweat chills on my skin. I lick my lips, curling my fingers in the edge of my skirt.

“Go on,” he says, leaving the engine running. “She’s waiting for you inside. I’ll get your Mustang in the garage and have a looksie.”

He’s looking at me strangely, expectantly.

I’m trying not to look at him, but it’s like we’re playing this game of pretending we don’t know something’s wrong. I nod slowly, smoothing my skirt.

Really, I’m feeling for that inner pocket and making sure the shape of my phone is in it. It presses against my palm, and I breathe a bit easier as I get out of the truck – nearly falling that last drop to the ground – and push my way inside the shop, the bell jingling overhead.

It’s so dark inside I can barely make out anything. I’m so nervous my entire body tingles.

Peering into the gloom barely lit by the light through the windows, I step in and let the door close behind me. It hits with an ominous thump and a jingling of the bell overhead, and my heart skips.

“Tara?”

There’s no sign of her. No sign of anyone, and my stomach feels hollow as I turn slowly.

It’s too familiar now. Like that girl in a horror movie who only realizes too late that she’s walked into a trap – but she’s beyond the point of no return and has no hope of turning back.

I can’t turn back.

Not without Tara.

But I’m going to find her on my own terms, even if I have to tear this whole garage apart. I’m not going to let Stewart scare or intimidate me, use my niece against me, or hurt Tara.

I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he even tries.

Yet just as I’m turning back to the exit to head outside, a small voice at my back freezes my blood and rips at my soul.

“Auntie Hay?”

Oh, Jesus.

I don’t want to turn around. As long as I don’t turn around, it’s not real.

The fear in Tara’s voice. The soft, trembling plea.

But I can’t stop myself. I stumble on my heels as I whip around, my heart nosediving, my breaths raw and thorny.

“Tara!” I cry.

Stewart pushes her through the rear door leading in from the garage – with a small jackknife peeking up over her head. She’s dirty, greasy, like she’s been pushed to the floor of the garage, her dress ripped, tears streaming down her smudged face as she moves forward shakily, her face white with fear.

White hot terror and rage ignite my blood.