Page 99 of Beckett
The words hit me like physical blows. That voice—flat, emotionless, terrifyingly calm—had haunted my nightmares for over a year. But this was the first time I’d heard it clearly, without darkness or distance or terror making everything blur.
Reggie Garrison stood three feet away from me.
Those flat eyes from the mug shot Travis had shown us, the ones that looked through the camera rather than at it, now stared directly into mine. Close enough to see they were brown, unremarkable brown, like millions of other eyes except for the absolute emptiness in them. He was smaller than I’d imagined during all those months of running. Average height, average build, thinning brown hair. The kind of man you’d pass in a grocery store without a second glance.
That was what made him terrifying. Evil shouldn’t look so ordinary.
“Don’t worry about your friend.” He gestured casually at Lark with the knife in his hand—the same knife, I recognized it instantly, my hand going involuntarily to the scar on my neck. “She didn’t suffer. Much. Unlike what you’re going to experience.”
My body wouldn’t move. Every muscle locked in place, that paralyzing fear I’d felt in a dozen parking lots, a dozen dark rooms, finally having a face to attach to it.
“But… But…you were arrested.”
“The decoy was convincing, wasn’t he?” Reggie’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Similar enough to pass, especially after I adjusted the booking records. Your boyfriend’s probably still watching him through that two-way mirror, thinking he’s won. That I’m the asshole sitting in that chair.”
The knife glinted as he turned it, catching the sun’s rays. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
He stepped forward, even strides, straight to me. I should run. Every cell in my body screamed at me to run. But Jet was pressed against my legs, and Lark was behind Reggie on the porch. Oh God, Lark. Was she alive? I couldn’t tell.
“I wasn’t sure how long I was going to toy with you.” His conversational tone was somehow worse than screaming would have been. “To be honest, I was bored, but I knew it was my duty to keep on.”
He grabbed my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and pressed the knife against my ribs. The point pierced my shirt, just enough to draw blood. A warning.
“Jeremy was twenty-two. Did you know that? Community college student. Never even had a speeding ticket. He was just visiting me that day. Wrong place, wrong time, your brother would have said. Acceptable collateral damage.”
Collateral damage. So ironic that he would say that since that concept was what had led us to him.
Jet whined behind me.
“But what I’m going to do to you? That’s justice. Eye for an eye. Your brother took my brother, so I take you.”
The knife pressed harder, causing me to gasp, and I felt warm blood trickle down my side. This was it. He was going to kill me, and I couldn’t seem to force my muscles to do anything.
And that was when Jet moved.
I’d never seen him like this. In all the days of watching Beckett try to train him, watching him fail at every protection exercise, get distracted by butterflies and birds and interesting smells—I’d never seenthisdog appear.
Thiswas the dog he’d been bred to be.
Seventy pounds of German shepherd fury launched at Reggie’s knife arm, jaws clamping down with savage force. The snarl that ripped from Jet’s throat belonged to something wild, something that had never been tamed, only temporarily domesticated.
Reggie screamed, trying to shake Jet off, but those jaws were locked, those teeth sunk deep. For a moment, I thought?—
The knife flashed.
Jet’s snarl turned to a high, horrible yelp as the blade went into his side. But he didn’t let go. Even as Reggie stabbed him again, even as blood matted his beautiful coat, Jet held on.
Then Reggie’s boot connected with Jet’s ribs, the force of it finally breaking his grip. My dog—because that’s exactly what Jet was—flew backward, hitting the deck with a sound that made my stomach turn. He tried to get up, those brave legs shaking, then collapsed onto the ground.
“No! No! Jet!” The words tore from my throat.
“Now, run, little rabbit.” Reggie examined his shredded arm with clinical detachment, blood dripping steadily onto the ground. “Let’s make this interesting.”
I ran.
Not toward my car—my keys were in my bag in the barn. Not toward the house—Lark needed help, but I couldn’t help anyone if I was dead. I ran toward the kennels where Atlas and Duke and Rosie were contained, trained protection dogs who could stop him if I could just?—
But Reggie cut me off, moving faster than I’d expected, given his injured arm. I veered left, trying to circle back to the house,to Lark, to a phone, to anything. But he was there too, herding me like I was one of the sheep in the back pasture.
