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He remains in place as I leave the room and stride down the hall to the door. I scope the front yard through the glass, finding a pile of discarded clothes resting at the top of the stairs.
But I can’t see them.
They’re not on the porch or in the yard.
“Hunt.”
Apprehension skitters down my spine. I press my head to the glass, trying to see further to the left and then the right.
That’s when I notice the abnormality.
Something is missing.
Something fucking important.
“Hunt.” I yank the door wide and step outside.
His footsteps thump down the hall. “What?”
“Notice something absent in this pretty little picture?”
He glances around, taking in the open expanse of vacant land before his gaze settles right in the middle of the drive. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
They’ve taken the car.
I barge past him to stalk down the hall. “You might want to get on the phone to that woman of yours and tell her to stop whatever the hell she thinks she’s doing.”
I enter my brother’s room, heading straight for the wardrobe to pull out a pair of jeans and a clean shirt.
“Call her, Hunt,” I yell, my words vibrating off the walls. “Get her on the fucking phone.”
Once I’m dressed, I jog from the bedroom and find him in the kitchen, his cell in hand.
“She’s not answering.” He shoves the device in his pocket, only to have it beep with a message.
“What does it say?” I inch closer and lift my chin, trying to read the screen.
His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare.
He raises the cell to show me the text—We thought you two needed some bonding time. We will see you back in Portland.
“Get your shit,” he growls. “We can catch them. They can’t have gone far.”
“Help me lock up.” I rush into the kitchen and pull a plastic garbage bag from beneath the sink, filling it with snacks to last us the upcoming hours on the road.
Hunt disappears down the hall, the slam of a window pane echoing in the distance.
Minutes later, I meet him at the front door, and he shadows me as I jog around the side of the house to his car that I stole yesterday.
“Fuck.” Hunt stops dead in his tracks and shoves a hand through his hair. “Fucking Sarah.”
I search for the trigger that set him off, my chest pounding, my limbs shaking as I find a kitchen knife protruding from the front passenger side tire. “Something gives me the distinct impression that they don’t give a shit about us bonding.”
“Ya think?” he drawls.
“They’re going back to make a move on Richard.” I break out in a cold sweat.
Keira’s going to commit murder, without taking the time to create a proper plan. Without me there to help.
Jesus.
Hunter meets my gaze. “And without a spare fucking tire, we’re never going to catch them in time.”