Something bigger. Darker. Worse than Tommy and Wyatt.
Shadows flickered over the car windows, just like all those times she'd watched the tiny gap between door and casing in that awful room back in Utah. Flick. A shadow of her captor. Another flick, and he walked the other way. Breathing became difficult.
The minivan rolled to a stop outside the main house. The Brand house. Numbness fled, chased by an ice-water splash of stark reality.
Every instinct screamed at her to run and fight. Wyatt cranked down his vice-like, unfriendly hug until her ribs creaked.
"Honey, we're home." Wyatt snickered as he pushed down the ramp and hauled Mariah out of the minivan. His grip on her upper arm squeezed hard enough that her hand went numb, even through the coat.
She heard no other sounds besides the scrapes of feet and vehicle doors opening and closing. Gravel crunched under booted feet.
Nothing else moved, not even a breeze through pine boughs.
Wrong. This was so wrong.
She dragged her feet and tripped, banging her knees on the porch boards. The last thing she wanted to do was enter this house.
Wyatt yanked her up, wrenching her arm. "Won't you come in?"
