She had to get out of here. Find help. Get back to Steve.
After a quick glance side to side, she rushed into the wooded area between her house and the one next door. She ran through the trees, stumbled over things she couldn’t identify in the dark. She ran until she reached the clearing that was the yard of the next house. It was dark. The occupants were either in bed or away.
Gasping for air and moving slowly, she made her way to the street. Fear pulsed in her veins. If she could make it across to the yellow house, she would knock on the door. The Simpsons lived there. They were friends of her grandparents. Their car was in the driveway.
She checked both ways then started across.
Just as she reached the halfway mark, a car barreled around the curve on her left.
She froze for an instant then turned and rushed back to her side of the street in hopes of reaching the cover of the trees before she was spotted.
The car skidded to a stop.
Not a car she realized. An SUV. Oh God.
She was about to dive into the woods when, “Hey, get in before they find you!”
Rivero.
A dozen questions shot through her head, but there was no time to analyze the situation. She could stay and hope to find a way out of here, or she could go with him.
She turned back to the street. The vehicle was his vintage Land Rover.
He could take her to Steve. Okay. She ran toward the vehicle, the door opened and she climbed inside. “They set my house on fire.”
“Buckle up.” He stamped on the gas, and the vehicle rocketed forward.
When they passed her house it was fully involved.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Everything is gone,” she murmured. Her entire history was gone. Her family’s history.
“At least you’re alive.” Rivero glanced in her direction.
She nodded, her body starting to shake from the receding adrenaline.
“You came for your laptop. Did you get a look at whatever you found?”
She nodded again, watching in the side mirror as her house disappeared in the distance as they drove away.
“I wish you hadn’t looked.” His words were spoken so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
“Why?” Her voice sounded weak and somehow frail.
Everything was gone…her heart hurt.
He glanced at her again, his expression grim in the dim light from the dash. “Because you can’t unsee it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, June 10
Woodstock Police Department
Lake Avenue, 12:05 a.m.
“I assure you, Mr. Durham,” Special Agent Potter insisted, “this was a mistake. I checked in with my point of contact regarding your and Ms. Foster’s activities, and he took me completely out of context.”
