and gleaming. The black door and gray siding. No shrubs or bushes butted up against the house. No trees. No fences. Nothing that would impede the owner’s view of the road and the field.
That didn’t make Trinity feel any more comfortable with the situation. Mason had served three tours overseas. He’d been a helicopter pilot and had seen his share of combat. It was possible that—like so many of the men and women he worked with—he had PTSD. If he did, he might be even less likely to appreciate a random stranger showing up at nine in the evening.
She walked up the porch steps, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she went. She didn’t know if she had cell reception, but she felt better holding on to the possibility.
She knocked, the sound echoing through the night. A bird startled from a tree, a critter scurried under the porch, but no one came to the door.
She knocked again, thought she saw one of the curtains in the front window move. Someone was there. She could feel him watching as she stepped back off the porch.
“Mason?” she called, surprised at the tremor she heard in her voice.
Nerves weren’t her style any more than fear was.
No response. Just the same silent house and that little flutter of curtain movement.
Someone was definitely in there.
Since he hadn’t shouted for her to leave or pointed a gun in her direction, she was going to keep trying to get him to open the door. Bryn was waiting for the mission-accomplished call and Trinity planned to make it. Mason Gains was the best at what he did. His prosthetic devices were used by some of the highest level athletes in the world. Getting him to agree to make one for Henry would lift the tween’s spirits and give him back the hope he’d lost the day he’d been told he was going to lose his leg. That was what Bryn wanted more than anything, and it was what Trinity wanted for her.
She walked around the side of the house. The windows were dark there, the moon the only light. The backyard was a tiny stretch of grass that bumped about against deep woods. To the right, a section had been cleared for a large workshop and a three-stall garage. An SUV sat in front of one stall, its windows tinted.
Washington, DC, license plate.
Mason must have visitors.
Good. He’d be less likely to shoot her and dump her body if there were witnesses around.
“Not funny, Trin,” she muttered as she walked up the three stairs that led to a small deck.
She planned to knock on the back door, but it was open, a screen the only thing separating her from the room beyond. A kitchen, maybe. She thought she could see the outline of a refrigerator in the darkness, see what looked like a table and chairs, and something else. A person? It looked like it. Not moving, just hanging back a few feet from the screen, watching her the way she was watching him.
She didn’t call out again, didn’t move closer.
Something was off. She could feel it in the frigid air and in the frantic pounding of her heart.
She stepped back, quietly, cautiously, eyes glued to person behind the screen.
The stairs were right behind her and she felt for them with her foot, afraid to turn away. Afraid that if she did, whoever was on the other side of the screen would attack.
She found the first step and moved down, her hair suddenly standing on end, her nerves alive with warning. The person didn’t move. Not an inch, but the air vibrated with energy.
Everything inside told her to run and, this time, she was going with her gut.
She swung around just as a quiet click broke the silence.
She knew the sound as well as she knew the sound of her mother’s voice. A gun safety being released.
She had seconds, and she used them, her feet moving almost before the sound registered. She leaped to the left, landing hard on thick grass. She stumbled, kept going, racing toward the trees as the first shot rang out.
The bullet whizzed past, slammed into a tree a few feet away, the trunk splintering, bits of it flying into Trinity’s face as she ducked and kept running.
The woods were there, and she dove into thick foliage, the sound of footsteps following her. A man called out, another answered, and she knew she was in bigger trouble than she ever could have imagined.
She’d ignored all the internal warnings, all the little shivers of doubt and fear, and she’d walked in on something she shouldn’t have.
Like an idiot.
Like a kid who didn’t know what she was doing or how to take care of herself.
Someone snagged the back of her jacket and she fell back, her phone flying from her grasp as she fought to free herself.
Elbow to a soft stomach, fist to a nose. She palmed the guy in the chin and finally broke free of his grasp. No plan except to escape. No destination but the forest with its thick trees and dark shadows. She had no idea where she was going or what she’d do once she got there. She just knew she had to keep moving.
She raced through heavy brambles, thorns catching on her skin and clothes, tearing at her hair. Blood seeped from a long scratch on her cheek, but she didn’t take time to wipe it away. She could still hear branches breaking, feet pounding, someone closing in.
Please, God. Please get me out of this, and I will always tell the entire truth instead of keeping little pieces of it to myself. I promise. Just help me, she prayed, bargaining in a way she hadn’t since she was old enough to understand how useless and silly it was.
God didn’t bargain.
He didn’t only come around when someone was in trouble, either.
He worked in His way and in His time, and Trinity was cool with that.
She wasn’t cool with dying.
She knew her eternal destiny, but she’d rather not have her body buried in the woods in Maine, her family spending the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to her the way they had always wondered what had happened to her older sister.
Behind her, someone called out, the voice deep and masculine. There was an answer from somewhere to her left, and she knew they were trying to pen her in, come at her from two sides. Or maybe even three.
She ran down a steep slope, nearly tumbling into a creek that burbled over rocks and old logs. She jumped over a narrow section, her feet sinking into mud on the far bank. She didn’t stop to smooth the prints away. She could hear her pursuer charging through the woods. Closing in. And she had no way of calling for help, no one flanking her, making sure she survived.
She was alone.
The way she’d wanted it, because she’d been tired of standing in the shadows of her brothers.
Now she wished they were here.
She wished she’d been more honest about her reasons for traveling to Maine and told them exactly where she planned to be. She wished a lot of things, but wishes were about as useful as umbrellas in hurricanes.
She sprinted uphill and found herself on a narrow path that skirted a ledge. A hundred feet below, dark water shimmered in the moonlight. A lake! And, beyond that, house lights. She wasn’t sure how far. A couple of miles away maybe. If she could make it there, she could knock on a door, find a phone, call for help.
If she could make it.
Someone barreled onto the path a few hundred feet to her left. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself over the ledge, grabbing tree branches to stop her momentum as she scrambled down. If she’d had all the time in the world, she could have made it, but time wasn’t on her side, and she was rushing, moving from one handhold to the other, not checking to see if they would hold her weight. She felt one give. The earth was moist from recent rain, the roots probably barely clinging to the side of the steep hill.