Page 51 of Assassin's Prey
The blast.
The car.
Abby.
“Abby!” Her name was ripped from my lungs, faint in my ears. I screamed it again as I rolled to my side, fighting my bruised and uncooperative body to get up, get to her. Harsh flames blocked my view, but I crawled, then stumbled to the other side of the inferno, only to find it fully consumed. That didn’t stop me. Lost in the numb silence that had taken over my world, I had only one thought: Get to Abby.
Get her out.
Get her out, goddamn it!
I was reaching for the passenger-side door when rough hands jerked me back. Even with my skin blistering, I fought them, desperate to get inside. More hands joined the first, ripping at me, forcing me away from the car. They were yelling, I could hear that, but nothing registered. Nothing but the heat and the flames and the agony. Not until two words finally, finally penetrated the fog.
“She’s gone!”
The fight went out of me. Rough hands dragged me back to a safe distance, and I let them, because all I could see, all I could comprehend was the roaring fire that consumed the small body in the front seat. My Abby.
Gone.
A roar came from out of nowhere, breaking the silence in my head, shattering the barrier that protected me from reality. It was only when my lungs ran out of air and I was forced to inhale that I realized the man screaming was me. That agony was me. That savage pain…me. They tried to get me up, tried to make me look away, but I fought them. And I watched. And I screamed.
Abby. Gone.
It was the faintest sound that broke through the chaos in my head. A cry. Not close, but… Someone hurt. Who?
Abby. Gone.
The cry came again, fragile, devastating. It needed to stop, to go away, leave me alone in the darkness and let me die. But it didn’t. It rose again and again, a long, keening wail that I couldn’t ignore. In increments so slow they were barely noticeable, I turned my head—and realized exactly who I was hearing.
Geneva Sanderson.
Her fragile body was crumpled on the lawn just past her front patio, a small bundle of cotton and bones that rocked back and forth as she cried out her grief. I stared at her, uncomprehending, wondering why Abby didn’t come hold her, take care of her. Why she left the woman she loved like a mother alone.
When I looked back at the car, the dying funeral pyre, I knew.
Because Abby was gone.
Somehow I managed to get my feet under me, to get my body to cooperate. The sound of sirens barely registered as I stumbled across the yard. My skin felt too small for my body; my lungs hurt. My desert-dry eyes refused to tear despite the gut-wrenching need to cry. None of it mattered.
All that mattered was reaching the woman on the ground, and when I did, I dropped down beside her like my bones had turned to water, put my arms around her shaking shoulders, and pulled her tearstained face to my chest. And let her cry for both of us.
I have no idea how long we sat there. The fire department came, pushing back the crowds, and put out the fire. A thick blanket of some sort was draped over the area where the windshield would be, protecting the victim from prying eyes.
The victim. Abby. My Abby.
The police came, asked questions. I have no idea what I told them. I didn’t care. Maybe they knew that, because they finally left us alone.
Neighbors came and took Mrs. Sanderson inside.
And still I sat and stared at the charred remains of my car. Holding vigil for the woman I loved more than my own life.
“Sir?”
I blinked.
“Sir?” A dark form crouched in front of me—the cop I’d spoken to earlier. His kind eyes and careful voice made me want to punch his pristine teeth out. “Sir, is there someone I should call for you?”
“Call?” I choked out. The word clicked in my brain. My brothers. I needed to call my brothers, but I couldn’t even fathom saying the words I’d need to say out loud. Abby was gone. How did I tell them I had failed to protect the most important person in my life? How?
