Page 26 of The Wrong Drive

I run to the window, and peer out into the darkness. I can’t see anything at all. I squint, unable to even find Turner or Gunner. I think about upstairs and remember the windows I saw from outside. It’s a better vantage point. Out of caution, I slide on my hiking boots and grab my parka, and then head for the stairs.

My footsteps echo as race to the second floor. I stop at the first door, and push it open, met with darkness. I squint as I make my way to the window, ripping open the curtains and gazing out. There’s nothing to see other than the shadow of trees. There’s no moon or stars in the sky, no beams of flashlights or headlights. I give it up, choosing to back away from the window with a defeated sigh.

I’ll just have to wait.

I turn around, my eyes having adjusted. They land on bookshelves, picture frames adorning the exterior portion. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slip toward the door, finding the light switch. I flip it on, illuminating the entirety of the room, layered in dust.

My lips purse as I’m met with a completely different version of Turner. With my back against the door, I inch it shut until it clicks. Then, I start making my way around the room. Books line the shelves, but it’s the pictures that catch my attention. He’s young, smiling, and has his arms wrapped around his friends—or maybe brothers? It’s hard to know in the first picture.

The next frame is a shadow box with Marine Raider patches. Next to it is a medal of honor and a photo of Turner receiving it. My brows furrow as I note the date. Thirteen years ago. I brush my fingers over the glass, glancing down at dark gray dust that coat them.

As I continue, I begin to shape his life in my mind. Most of the pictures on the shelves are of him and another few guys—one of them lookingsomuch like Turner, himself. I keep making my way, seeing a lot of photos of him in his uniform in desert terrain.

When I reach the end of the first wall, I come to another shadow box—but it’s not Turner’s. It’s someone named Taylor Martin, and it doesn’t take me long to understand the purple heart.

Taylor Hart Martin, killed in the line of duty.

“Thirteen years ago,” I say aloud, glancing back to the other. I don’t have to know the details to put some of it together. I get it. He lost his brother, and as I keep going through the otherin memory ofdécor, I realize he lost a lot more than just his blood brother.

My heart sinks deep in my chest as I make it down the second wall, seeing the pictures shift to family photos of Turner as a kid. I stop at the first one, seeing his presumed parents and three boys. I pick him out as the middle, and the one who passed as the youngest.

And then I find his father’s obituary.

And mother’s.

Date of Death: October 27, 2011.

I shake my head at the notion, and then go back to his brother’s shadow box.Killed in the line of duty, October 12, 2011.My hand flies to my mouth.Holy shit.He lost his brotherandhis parents in the same freaking month? How could anyone be so fucking unlucky? My stomach churns with empatheticnausea. I take a deep breath and stop there, seeing a college degree hanging on the wall near the window.

Thomas Robert Martin.

I run my hands over my face. That must be theotherbrother? Is this his house? I mean,hisdegree is hanging on the wall. God knows what Turner went through. No wonder he locked himself away from the world. My eyes land on a typewritten letter, laying on the far corner desk then.

I shouldn’t pry anymore.

I take a step toward it. However, I freeze when I hear a creak from outside the room.Shit. Shit. Shit.

The door flies open before I can move, and Turner’s frame fills the doorway. He’s still dressed in his winter gear, and there’sstilla rifle in his hands.

“What thefuckare you doing?” he explodes, his voice causing me to shrink backward.

I hold my hands up in surrender, but notice his eyes are elsewhere, taking in the pictures on the shelves. “Turner, I’m sorry…I was just trying to see out the window?—”

“Getout.” He raises the rifle, pointing it the center of my chest. His eyes are dark. And empty. Focused only on my chest.“Get out.”

“Okay,” I choke on the word, my heart in my ears. But I can’t leave. He’s blocking the door. “I just…I just need to slip by you.”

He doesn’t budge and as I gather the courage to meet his gaze, his eyes snap back to mine… But they’re so…dead.

“Turner…” My voice trails off. “I’m sorry.”

But it’s like he doesn’t hear me, even as he takes another step toward me. The barrel of his rifle is only a few feet from me now, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I stagger backward and to the right, trying to dodge the end of his gun.

And that’s when it fires.

A scream lights up my lungs, and I lunge for the door as a second shot sounds. Panic sears through my body as I hear the bolt action from somewhere behind me.

“Get out!” Turner shouts.

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