Page 47 of Bleeding Blackheart

21

Gunner

Twelve Years Ago

My heart races while I drive down the road. Three missed calls. Margaret’s never missed three of my calls. When I answer, she knows to pick up on call number one. That’s our rule. Something’s wrong.

I grip my phone, getting ready to call Dallas when I pass the Devil on the road to her house. I turn my head to look at the car next to me, and it’s him. His black eyes stare straight through me, and I know I’m too late.

I face forward on the road again, nearly driving off into a ditch when I do so. My eyes burn, and my palms start to sweat. I should’ve never let her go to that house alone. But she insisted on moving in last week when I was out of town for work. Except I lied to her. I wasn’t out of town for work and was closing on the house I got for us. I was hoping I could convince her to change her mind about hergrandmother’s home and move out of town with me. But I don’t know if I’ll have the chance to.

I knew he hated me, but I never thought he’d go after her. When the lane next to me’s empty, I floor it, not able to handle the wait any longer.

She’ll be okay. She has to be okay. My Margaret’s alright.

But when I pull in front of the house and see the front door open, I can’t lie to myself any longer.

I leave my truck running, bolting out of it. “Margaret!” I scream at the top of my lungs for her, hoping she’ll rush out of the house.

I slow down when I get to the front steps, dreading what I’ll see when I go inside. And as soon as I step over the welcome mat, I drop to my knees.

“No. No, no, no.” My breakfast rumbles in my stomach, and I spew it all over the white carpet.

“Margaret,” I sob. I feel like a statue staring at her. Her eyes are wide open, and she has two knives in her. One in her neck, and the other . . . the other in her stomach.

My baby. I’ve lost my Margaret and my baby in the same fucking day.

I scream at the top of my lungs, mustering up the strength to go over to her.

Her brown hair is soaked in blood, and her pale hands are ice-cold. I spoke to her last night before bed. How isthis possible? I heard her voice and she was there. I talked to her. And now she’s gone.

I pick up my phone, wanting to call the police, but call the only person I trust instead.

“Gunner?”

I struggle to breathe while I sob over the line, telling Dallas how his little sister is butchered in front of me.

His loud yell makes my ears ring, and he catches his breath through sobs, telling me what to do. “You can’t call the police, Gunner.”

I stand up, pacing around the room while I stare at her. “I can’t let him get away with this.”

“If you call the police, he’s just gonna get off.”

“But—”

“He’s the goddamn sheriff, Gunner! And if you go after him, he’s going to keep destroying everything around you.”

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!”

He groans. “Bury her. Bury her out back. Momma can’t know she was murdered. She’ll never let it go, and she’ll spend the rest of her days looking for Margaret’s killer.”

I wretch again in disbelief that I’m getting ready to cover this up. I’m going to cover up this bastard’s crime.

Dallas keeps going, ignoring me. “You’ll man the fuck up and bury her, and I’ll burn the house later and make itlook like an accident. As far as anyone knows, you didn’t get back in town until this afternoon.”

“But he saw me.”

“He won’t do a damn thing about it.”

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