Page 152 of Ride the Sky

Gas leak.

Who knows how long it’s been on. I think of the stove I almost turned on for that damn dessert, and my gut twists.

More sounds now. From upstairs.

Footsteps. Soft and slow, but unmistakable.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

My body wants to freeze, to shut down, transported back to that night with Aiden.

I move silently toward the stairs and watch the stairwell darken.

A figure.

It sends a wake-up call to my brain, and automatically, my fists ball.

Someone’s in my house.

Pulse spiking, my hands fly to my back pocket. I swear. My cellphone and my cane are both upstairs.

That little voice inside of me shrieks.

Out, out, get fucking out.

I’m not even thinking about it anymore, just doing it. I move backward as quiet as I can. The cement floor is cool on my bare feet. My breath comes in quick pants as I hurry to the freezer beneath the basement window.

My head feels foggy from the gas. Nausea curdles my stomach. Quickly, I shove a milk crate up against the freezer.

I grit my teeth, biting down on a scream as I place both palms on the freezer and heft myself up. Even the small action has sweat streaming down my brow, my spine. My hip rages.

Fuck. I’m going to hurt tomorrow.

On my hands and knees on the freezer, I breathe hard. My thinking’s getting fuzzy, my movements slow.

Spots dancing in my vision, I stand with a wobble. Bracing my legs, I flip the latches on the basement window. With a grunt, I shove it up.

I grip the window ledge, twisting my body hard to brace my feet on the wall. I see sunlight, see my street.

Almost there. Almost there.

With the last of my energy, I push myself up and through the window.

Gasping for air, I collapse face-first onto the front lawn. Blackness creeps along the edge of my vision. Something moves in my periphery.

The crunch of gravel.

Cowboy boots.

They get closer and closer.

No. No.

I let out a moan of protest and one last grunt of fighting struggle before my eyes roll back and darkness sweeps me under.

Stede McGraw is already frowning. Which doesn’t bode well for me or this conversation. But it’s time. Time for Stede and Fallon to shit or get off the pot. It’s killing both of them, the way they’ve been avoiding each other. Fucking stubborn cowboys who can’t work up the nerve to apologize.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I say, approaching the table. The diner’s nearly empty. Two coffees and a beer sit on the table in front of Stede.

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