Page 54 of Givin' Me Fitz!
Sawyer looked ready to protest, but I reached up and clamped his lips, winking at him. “I’m not joking, Sawyer. I’ll be right back.”
I stepped out of his pickup that we’d driven to Mesquite. Mine was parked at the Cowboys’ clubhouse, where I was promised it was in good hands.
We had driven to East Adkisson to pick up TJ, and then we’d hit the road to get his grandfather, with Sawyer holding my hand the whole way. Now we were in front of Mr. Middleton’s house, and my stomach was in knots.
I walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, and Sawyer rolled down the window. “When I knock, who else might be in there?” I motioned for him to ask TJ.
Sawyer turned to the back seat where the kid sat, his leg nervously bouncing, though he said nothing.
“You know that car?” Sawyer pointed to a silver Chevy Malibu that was old and rusty.
“That’s Rosemary’s car.” TJ didn’t look Sawyer in the eye, so I checked my gun. We had no information on Rosemary, and I wasn’t taking any chances.
“What about that one?” I pointed down the street to a hunter green Range Rover parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. No way did it fit into the neighborhood. The homes were modest and many in ill-repair. That SUV could have paid for two of them on the cul-de-sac.
I pulled my bounty hunter badge from my back pocket and slipped it around my neck. “You got any papers I can use to act like I’m serving a warrant if someone answers the door?”
Sawyer opened the console and pulled out a bunch of service receipts for his truck. “How’s this?”
I nodded. “Stay here and keep TJ with you. Once I know Rosemary and Grandpa are the only people in the house, I’ll motion for you. Back up the truck and park on the street.”
Thankfully, Sawyer nodded. “Be careful, Fitz. You and I are on the brink of something. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I touched his cheek, hoping he could see that I meant what I was about to say. “I’d never do that to you.” I leaned into the truck and kissed him before grabbing the papers from his hand.
Sawyer backed out of the driveway and up the block as I’d asked so he could be out of sight. I approached the door, my eyes shifting to the curtains on each side to see if anyone moved them to check who was knocking, and I pounded on the door.
When there was no flutter or answer, I took a deep breath, tried the doorknob, and when it wouldn’t give, I lifted my booted foot and forced it.
The hoarse cries of “Help! Help me!” from the back of the house startled me, so I hurried through the front room and down the hall, stepping through the bedroom door to see what was going on.
When I glanced around the small, dark room with blackout curtains over the lone window, I found an old man tied to a twin bed.
There were tear tracks across his temples, though he wasn’t moving. I touched his neck, hoping for a pulse. Suddenly, his eyes popped open and he whispered, “Are you going to kill me like you killed Rosemary?” I flinched at the sound of his scratchy voice.
“Mr. Middleton? I’m Fitz Morgan, a friend of TJ’s. Are you okay?”
“Where is TJ? Please don’t hurt him. Why are you looking for my grandson?” The old man struggled against the ropes.
I touched his arm, hoping to offer him some comfort. “TJ is safe, Mr. Middleton.”
I quickly retrieved my pocketknife and cut the old man loose from the bed before calling Sawyer. “Yeah, babe.” I believed it was safe for them to come inside.
“I’ve got Mr. Middleton. Bring TJ when you come in. His grandfather is scared to death.”
“On our way.” Sawyer ended the call.
I helped Mr. Middleton sit up. “Are you okay? Do you need some water or anything?”
The old man whimpered as I steadied him while putting his feet on the floor. I gave him a good look-over for signs of injuries, seeing red marks on his wrists and ankles where the ropes had bit into his skin. There was a red handprint on his left cheek, suggesting he’d been slapped.
When I got to his eyes, I was taken aback—the lenses were cloudy white, signaling glaucoma had taken his sight. “TJ’s on his way inside, Mr. Middleton. I’m a friend of his. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Poor Rosemary. Is she dead?” The old man pointed toward the hallway.
“I’ll go check.” I found the woman, Rosemary, on the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood, a gunshot wound in the middle of her chest.
There was a man nearby covered in blood with a gash in his neck. He was struggling to breathe, so I grabbed a kitchen towel and held it to his neck in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “What happened?”
