Page 45 of Taking Root

“I feel like I wasted all those years in med school,” Adrian murmured. “They never taught us exciting shit like this.”

“It’s better this way,” she responded, flashing him a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Now you’ve got the training to clean up my messes.”

The lock clicked, and Danny pulled at the door, sawdust and spare dirt filtering down in clouds. Her father hadn’t arrived yet; otherwise the refuse would’ve cascaded before now. Danny entered first, the silence crawling across her skin like spiders. This place with its red vinyl booths and black and white checkerboard floors had been bright and filled with laughing kids, smiles as people dove into their ice cream, and a happy, vibrant energy she rarely felt at home.

Now a hull remained, the floors chipped, the vinyl booths torn, and a dejected sense of abandonment filtering through the air. Danny could commiserate.

Adrian pulled out the pistol and turned the safety off.

“You don’t have to shoot to kill,” Danny warned him. Not like she didn’t want to, but she wouldn’t burden him with her father’s murder. “Aim for the ankle to keep him from running. If you can’t get a good shot on the location, then go for a shoulder.”

“Don’t have to worry about me, darlin’,” he responded. “I’ll do what’s necessary to keep you safe.” The gravity in those blues offered a promise. Adrian lifted the pistol and headed toward one of the dilapidated booths in the far left corner.

Danny’s hands itched as longing sliced through her. She wanted to reach out, kiss him one last time, or say anything. Not like she had time. Instead, she tugged her taser out, keeping it on standby as she began her solitary march behind the ice cream counter. She slipped past what used to be a swinging door but now hung off the hinges. Behind the counter lay a mess of chipped wood, broken shelving, and chips of paint and flaked drywall.

Danny settled into place, flattening one hand on the bumpy surface of the counter while keeping her taser out of sight. She glanced over to the booth in the back where Adrian settled into place. She could barely make out the shadow of where he crouched in the corner, far enough away from the windows that murky blackness obscured it.

Movement from outside snared her attention.

Someone approached.

Sweat beaded her palms, and her heart launched into a military march. The reckoning had arrived. With the way the light streamed in, she couldn’t get a clear view of the person who stepped to the door, but she didn’t need to. She recognized his stout frame on the spot. The door rattled, and for a moment, Danny considered running. Where to, she didn’t know.

But with her father’s approach, all the pent-up memories begged to burst through the dam.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.

Years of living on the run had aged him more than normal, deep creases lining his face where soft wrinkles might be. His trimmed hair lay in messy silver strands, nothing like the old chestnut locks he’d kept slicked back every day. Kyle Peterson wore a plaid button-down, stiff jeans, and leather boots in decent repair, like he was some average guy. Like he hadn’t stained his hands in too much blood.

Red, red, red, splattered across the instruments, the floor. Wet flaps of skin that had been carved off one of the hanging bodies. The gray sheen of bone poking through where the leg should be straight.

Bile rose in Danny’s throat.

He flexed his hand upon entrance, an old response she knew well. He possessed a steel grip, and as a kid she never wanted to be on the receiving end. Her shoulder ached from old memories of how those fingers imprinted in, tight enough to hurt. Not so tight anyone would notice. His gaze settled on her, and the air evacuated the room.

Out of all the subtle details that changed about him, one thing never altered. The dead expression in those hazel eyes.

“Samantha,” he said, the low monotone so familiar her teeth hurt. “It’s been awhile.”

“Saw the note you left at my apartment, Kyle,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

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