Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(23)

“Sure,” I tell him, getting out of the SUV with a little burst of relief. No escape required, after all. At least, not yet. Another paramedic is guiding Sam, and we end up perched together on the step of the ambulance as we’re checked out. Sam is diagnosed with a mild concussion and cracked ribs; he’s tagged for transport to the hospital. My headache earns me the same privilege, but no way do I want to leave our bags behind in Mike Lustig’s SUV, or rob us of getaway transportation. I decline. While they put Sam in the ambulance, I move our stuff back to our own rented vehicle, which is thankfully pulled far enough off to the side that I can back it around the blockage.

I’m halfway out when Mike Lustig steps into my path, and I have to brake hard to avoid giving him a bumper kiss; once I’m stopped, he steps around to my driver’s side door and taps on the window. I roll it down. “I’m heading for the hospital,” I tell him. “And I’ll wait there.”

“Fine,” he tells me. “You two need to be right about this. You ready?” His gaze tells me I’d better be. I nod. “Don’t leave the hospital. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

I nod, and then I back up and turn to follow the ambulance down the winding mountain road, away from the ashes of what we’d hoped to discover.



The first thing I do, once the doctors have checked me, is sit down and call Javier, even though it’s now nearly five in the morning. I don’t tell him about the fire, or the near miss. I just tell him we’re okay. He can tell we’re at a hospital, though thankfully he doesn’t ask many questions, and I don’t have to lie.

“How are they?” I ask him. I’ve woken Javier up, and I feel bad about it, but hearing his voice is an immense relief. “Are they adjusting?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says, which is honest. He’s keeping his voice down, and I hear the rustle of clothes and footsteps. I imagine him putting on a coat and stepping out onto his porch, because I hear the slight hiss of wind over the phone speaker, and the creak of wood as he sits down on the chair he keeps there. “Jesus, it’s freezing tonight. The kids are fine, but I can’t say they’re happy. It’s setting in on them that you’re in danger. Lanny’s dying to get out of the house. Connor just . . . reads. Is that normal?”

“More or less,” I say. “Tell them I love them, will you?”

“Sure.” He hesitates for a few seconds, and then he yawns. It’s contagious, and I do, too, and realize how exhausted I am, again. “You’re not okay, Gwen. I can tell.”

“I’m okay enough.”

“You coming back soon?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him softly. “I’m trying.”

When I hang up, I find my chest is tight, my throat sore with unshed tears.

Eight long ER hours later, Sam’s injuries have been confirmed as cracked ribs and a minor concussion. I’ve been warned my head will hurt like a son of a bitch for about a day (and it already does, despite a generous application of over-the-counter painkillers). By the time Sam’s ribs have been wrapped and we’ve been relieved of payments we can’t afford, we find three beefy white men in uniform waiting for us in the hallway. They’re virtually identical, all with the blocky build of guys whose glory days came as high school linebackers; they’ve all got buzz cuts and tans that end at their collars and cuffs. Mike Lustig, in his FBI body armor and badge and blackness, stands apart, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. In the better light here, he has a long, friendly sort of face, one that seems prone to breaking into ironic smiles more than angry frowns.

Can’t say the same for the Georgia bulldogs. They all look impassive at best, outright antagonistic at worst.

“Mr. Cade? Mrs. Royal?”

“It’s Ms.,” I automatically correct, and then I take in that he’s called me by my old name. “Not Royal. My name is Gwen Proctor.”

“My info says Gina Royal,” the spokesman says, with a grim little twist of his lips that I don’t mistake for a smile. “You come with me, Miz.”

I glance at Mike Lustig. He shrugs. “I got no dog in this fight,” he says. “Go on.”

Sam and I exchange a quick look, and I nod to let him know it’s fine. I don’t know if it’s fine, but there’s no point, and no benefit, to staging a war here in the hallway. I walk with the officer around the corner to a quiet waiting room, and he gestures me to a corner seat. It’s the farthest one from the exit, but I automatically calculate the ways out, just for practice. Agent Lustig hasn’t followed us.

Interestingly, the officer excuses himself almost immediately and shuts the door. I check my watch and start counting. I expect he’ll let me cool my heels for at least an hour. It’s standard technique. The more off balance and tired a subject is, the better the chances of a slipup.

Georgia’s playbook clearly says two hours are the optimum, because it’s nearly three when the officer returns. He squeezes himself into the chair next to me, too close for comfort. I imagine he means to intimidate. It just annoys me. If he really knows who I am, then surely he understands I have a whole different scale of intimidation. He smells like sweat and smoke, which means he was up at the cabin, or what’s left of it. There’s a small stained area on his left sleeve that looks like old blood, and now that I’ve seen it, I can’t quite look away. Did he get it helping someone? Or punching someone? Though sometimes, you have to punch one person to help another.