A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(81)

Brent and I have had long talks over dinner. I told him I felt a deep sadness radiate from him when he looked at Morrigan, and he admitted his younger sister died at around the same age. She was blonde like my daughter. He doesn’t quite believe in my gift, but he’s come to trust me, and I trust him. Brent was the exception to my order that Christian tell no one when he hid Morrigan and me on his property. Nothing gets by Brent’s notice on this land. My mother always warned me that my father’s reach was long. His associates still walked outside the prison walls. Who knew what an old friend would do for him? Absolute secrecy was a must.

But it wasn’t my father who killed my mother and the judge. It was Gabriel.

Skepticism crosses Brent’s face, and he searches my eyes. I smell the change in the air as he decides to believe me.

“I need to call Christian.” He places his gun on the granite kitchen counter and touches his phone’s screen.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” I turn to Morrigan, who’s been listening, her eyes wide. “Get my emergency bag. It’s in my closet.” She vanishes to obey. I’ve been prepared. I have money, passports, new credit cards, and all our important papers in there, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Ready for this very moment.

“Fuck. I got voice mail.” He clears his throat. “Christian, I’m at Salome’s cabin. She says Gabriel is the one after her, not her father. He’s spotted her and we’re going to get out of here.”

“Will Christian be okay?” My stomach twists at the thought of my friend in danger.

“He can take care of himself.”

“But it’s his brother.”

Brent’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s Christian’s issue.”

“Here, Mama.” Morrigan thrusts the bag into my hands. Her eyes are clear and her mouth determined. She is brave.

“Get in the car,” I order her.

“We’ve got better vehicles at the house,” Brent argues.

“But the house is hundreds of yards away and Gabriel is there. We’re taking my Subaru.”

“But the snow—”

“It’s good in snow.” My voice is as strong as my mind is full of doubt. The long road to the cabin has been ignored for two days as Brent allowed the snow to cover my car’s tracks. I follow Morrigan to the tiny garage and hit the button to raise the door. It strains, making a grinding noise, and stops.

“There’s too much snow against the front,” Brent says. He pushes past me into the garage and grabs a snow shovel. “Stay inside.” He darts back into the house, picks up his gun, and goes out the front door. I follow to the doorway.

“Be careful,” I yell after him. I close the door and am frozen. I don’t know what to do.

Pack food.

I dart to the kitchen and start throwing things in bags. Milk, water bottles, bread, peanut butter. I hand bag after bag to Morrigan, who runs them out to my car. Time crawls. What is taking so long? I run for blankets, ripping them off the beds, and grab a few clothes for Morrigan.

The front door opens and my heart stops. Brent rushes in, still carrying the shovel. “Let’s go.”

The garage door smoothly moves up its tracks, and I catch my breath at the depth of the snow. He also dug out a section of the driveway where the snow had formed big drifts. No wonder it took so long. “Farther out the road is better,” he tells me as he throws the shovel on the stack of blankets and food in the back of my car.

We both move to the driver’s door and halt, our frantic gazes colliding. I want to drive, my motherly instinct roaring to protect my child. But he holds out his hand and I drop the key on his palm. My inner tiger growls in protest, but I know because of his profession that his driving skills are likely better than mine.

He backs out of the garage. My little car protests but handles beautifully. He winds out to the main road of the estate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of blue among the trees.

The glass of Brent’s window shatters as I hear the crack of the rifle. Warm spray covers my face and Morrigan shrieks.

Brent slumps forward, held in place by his seatbelt, and the car stops.

His forehead is gone. His face is covered with blood that flows into his lap.

He is dead.

I stare, my heart numb at the sight of my friend.

My fault. He wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t helped us.

I can’t breathe. No time to stop. No time to mourn. Keep going.

I block out Morrigan’s screams and peer through Brent’s shattered window.

Fifty yards away, Gabriel stands. His feet are planted wide and his rifle points at me.

“Morrigan, get down!”

Another shot hits the back driver’s-side window, and Morrigan’s shrieks are deafening. I grab the wheel and shove Brent’s body against his door. His head rolls loosely on his neck and hangs out his window. My stomach heaving, I maneuver until I straddle the center console and my foot reaches the gas pedal. I push Brent’s leg out of my way and gently press the gas, fighting an overwhelming urge to stomp on it. The car moves forward and I awkwardly steer.

Gabriel moves parallel with the road, struggling to jog in the snow with his rifle. The car slowly pulls ahead and my heart pounding in my ears drowns out my daughter’s sobs. She is crouched on the floor behind the passenger seat. I press harder on the gas pedal and some of the tires start to spin. I let up, terrified of getting stuck, and struggle to see the road. Everything is covered in a thick layer of white, and the edges of the drive aren’t clear. I aim for the widest flat area and pray the road is beneath.