Page 45 of The Wrong Drive

Love,

Turner

I shove the note in my pocket and grip the locket in my hand as panic washes over my entire body. My mind takes me back to the peaceful expression on Turner’s face, and I sprint from the room, thundering down the stairs. Gunner breaks into a bark at the door, as I shove my feet into my shoes. I stop to fasten the chain around my neck, and then grab my jacket, tearing through the open door.

“Find him,” I scream to Gunner. “Find him,” I repeat, my voice breaking. I scan the area, and that’s when I spot a single wooden cross, uncovered by the winds blowing from the east instead of north. As I tug on my coat, I run toward it, my stomach sinking as I come close enough to read the name etched on it.

Thomas Robert Martin

05/17/1980 – 12/25/2013

A sob tears from my chest. Thomasneverleft, and I don’t have to ask to know the answer to this question. Tears slip down my cheeks, as I spin around, searching for Gunner. He scratches at the barn walk-through door, and I rush for it, turning the knob.

It’s locked.

I stop, trying to listen over my pounding heart. I hearsomethingon the other side. I jiggle the doorknob again. “Turner,” I shout, banging my fist on the door. “Turner, let me in.”

Nothing.

“Turner,” I scream at the top of my lungs, slamming my fists so hard they begin to ache. “Please.” Tears roll down my cheeks freely, as Gunner bays from behind me, his panic reflecting mine. I don’t know how to break in. I barrel my shoulder into the door as hard as I can, begging and pleading for the old frame to give way to my weight.

Adrenaline surges through my body as I slam against the door once more, and the wood splits—but it doesn’t give. I yell his name again, begging him to let me inside. Gunner’s panicked barks drown out the sound of anything else as he begins to jump and scratch at the door. I feel as though I’m losing touch as I kick with all my strength, my breaths heavy and desperate for oxygen. I throw my body at it one more fucking time.

And it splinters, giving way and finally letting me inside.

I fall into the darkness, landing on my shoulder. I swallow the staggering pain and scramble to my feet, searching for Turner. Gunner darts past me, heading to the back of the barn, his feet silently moving across the concrete floors. I sprint after him, not even bothered by the sight of Adam’s jeep. I don’t care.

Ireallydon’t care.

My footsteps echo as I make it to the dimly lit area, reaching stacks of boxes and tubs, labeled with different things—all of it Turner’s. As I scan around myself, squinting in the dark, I meet his gaze.

And the barrel of a gun.

“Get out of here, Em,” he says, his voice monotone. “I unburied your truck. The roads were cleared last night. Take Gunner. Don’t make me force you.”

I step toward him, where he’s sitting in an old, dusty chair. “Don’t do this, Turner.”

He shakes his head at me, cocking the hammer. “You think you know me, but you don’t have the slightest idea of what I’ve done.”

“You killed your brother,” I throw out the assumption. “And my guess is Adam doesn’t make number two.”

His eyes alight with irritation. “No. He’s number nine. Seven other people trespassed on this place, and I did what I did.”

I nod, surprisingly less terrified than I expected myself to be. I take another step, and his hand trembles, his finger on the trigger. “If you shoot me, you’ll regret it.”

“You’re right,” he says flatly. “But moments later, I’ll be burning in hell, anyway.”

“Don’t leave Gunner alone,” I reason, my voice softening at the pain in his eyes. “We can fix this… You’re not too far gone, Turner.”

“Yes, I am,” he snaps, his eyes boring into mine. “Tommy told me before he went cold to find a way to appease the monster in me—and I found my way, killing people who came here when they shouldn’t—and now, I don’t think that’s what he meant. But it’s too late to change it.”

“Cycles can be broken,” I reason, inching closer as Gunner backs away, sitting. I reach out, and in one swift move, I take thegun from his hand. He doesn’t fight me for it, nor does he stop me from straddling him, taking a seat in his lap.

“What’re you doing, Em?” he groans. “I’m finally going to do what needs to be done, and you’re forcing me to get violent.”

I press the barrel to his temple, my heart throbbing in my head. “Tell me everything. I want to hear it all.”

He meets my gaze. “I’d rather you just pull the trigger.”

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