Page 70 of Mountain Hero

Still. I need to tell her. I want to tell her.

I could do it tonight. Will is coming in this afternoon, so I can go shopping for flowers and make reservations at the Laughing Goat to sit at the chef’s table. Since I went to high school with the owner, I’m sure he’ll fit us in. Then we can come home and sit by the fireplace—the weather is cool enough now—and sip wine and make love and then I’ll let Winter know the truth of how I feel about her.

When my phone buzzes, I’m certain it’s Winter, and I smile as I reach across my desk for it. I’ll ask her if she wants to go out tonight and if she’ll wear one of those sexy dresses I spotted in the closet.

As I flip over the phone, I’m already imagining us in the car on the way home from the restaurant; my hand on her bare leg, inching up to the junction of her thighs…

Then I read the message, and everything stops.

I have your girlfriend. If you call the police you won’t see her alive again.

My chest is encased in ice. My heart freezes.

You have an hour to get here. Come alone.

What?

For a second, nothing computes.

Winter’s at her house. She’s packing up some more of her things to bring over to my place.

No. Our place.

She wanted to get some of her old photos and the signed baseballs that belonged to her dad. I put up another shelf—this time in the living room—so Winter would have more room to display the things that mean most to her.

Winter’s still packing. She’s fine. It’s the middle of the day. Thomas is in jail. This is just some kind of sick joke.

I check the number the text came from, but it’s not one I recognize, just a random one with the 802 area code.

It has to be a joke.

Just as I’m about to call Winter—it’s a joke, it has to be a joke—another message comes in.

But it’s not a message. It’s a photo. Of Winter.

Fuck.

It’s my Winter, tied to a chair. Her eyes are open, red-rimmed and wide and terrified. There’s a bruise rising on her cheek and a trickle of blood running down from it. There are smudges of dirt on her pants, and one knee of her jeans is torn and stained red.

Rage ignites, melting the ice.

Someone took Winter.

I’m going to kill them.

As I’m staring at the photo, a location pin appears. It’s west of Greensboro, about forty minutes away.

Another text follows.

Don’t take too long. Or you won’t like what happens. I promise.

I want to scream at the phone. Call the number and rage at whoever is behind this. Threaten death if they don’t let Winter go.

But instead, I force myself to do the smart thing.

I’m on my way.

Then I dive for the weapons case under the desk, grab a Ka-Bar and Sig, and sprint for the door.

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