Page 152 of Runaways

She fumbles with her left hand to get her phone from her pocket without looking away from us and without lowering the gun. It's a difficult task; she's going to have to do one or the other sooner or later, and then I'm going to have to charge her. It's my only option.

But then I see Silas behind her, slowly creeping from the wooded area between the house and the back alley.

"Why would you call the police? I didn't hurt anyone; I swear."

Noah's shouting allows him to move a little faster, and I watch him grab a shovel leaning against the side of the house.

"She knows who you are, Noah," I say calmly. "She said your name."

"I did my research after the police called," she says. "I started looking for runaways in the Pacific Northwest around the time you showed up; didn't realize that I'd never really looked at you long enough to realize that you were Noah Barlowe. Of course, you were pretty beat up when you showed up. I didn't realize you'd been hidinghimall this time; now that…that is a fucking surprise."

"I didn't—" Noah tries to step around me, and I grab her by the shirt and pull her back.

"Don't move!" Jodie shouts. "Don't fucking move, or Iwillshoot you."

She finally gets the phone from her pocket just as Silas closes in on her.

"Noah really didn't do anything," I say loudly to distract her. "She never hurt anyone, and she wasn't hiding me. All of it was—"

Before I can finish the sentence, Silas swings the shovel, and the woman drops to the ground in the gravel. Silas effortlessly lifts her and tosses her over his shoulder, the shovel in his other hand, and carries her behind the house and out of view.

"Silas, wait!" Noah shouts. "Tate, is she dead?"

"No, she's probably just unconscious," I say. "But she will be."

"Silas!" She races after him toward the house.

"Stop yelling!" I bend down and pick up the gun, tucking the discarded weapon into the back of my waistband before chasing after her. The back door to the house is open, and the woman lies unconscious on the living room floor.

Noah follows him around the kitchen, pleading with him, trying to catch his eye as he opens drawers and cabinets, searching for a knife. I have the gun, of course, but guns are loud.

Knives are quiet. And artistic. A personal touch matters; not everyone can do that.

"Silas, please!" she cries. "Don't kill her. You don't have to kill her."

"Noah," I say. "Baby, we do have to kill her. It's the only way we're going to get out of here."

"I'm not talking to you!" she screams back at me. "I'm talking to the person who actually gives a shit about me!"

The woman at my feet stirs, and I quickly pull out the gun and hit her over the head with it.

"Tate, no!" Noah screams as the woman slips out of consciousness, falling limp onto the floor again.

"What?"

I shrug, throwing my hands up. I really don't know what the fuck she wants from me.

Silas pulls a knife roll bag from the top of the fridge and unfurls it on the island.

I'm glad he's the one who's going to do it. She always forgives him. I'm sure he realizes that, too.

"Silas, no! Silas, please don't! Please!"

She drops to the ground and wraps her body around one of his legs. "Please, stop, Silas," she sobs. "Please, don't kill her. She took care of me. She was like…a mom."

"Tate, get her out of here," Silas says. "She doesn't need to see this."

I wrap my arms around her middle and pull her off him, but she screams and fights against my hold. "No, Tate! Let me go."

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