“He found us.”
“Who?”
The figure started across the field.
Ray’s hand closed around mine with surprising strength.
“Don’t let him see the bag.”
I shoved the canvas bundle beneath my soaked flannel and pulled Ray’s body fully under the fence. The wire caught his vest again, and this time the fabric tore all the way down the side.
The stranger was halfway across the field.
I looked at the farmhouse door. I looked at the approaching figure. Then I saw something that made my blood run cold.
The front door was not locked.
It was standing open by less than an inch, as if someone inside had been waiting for us to reach the porch.
Part 3
The stranger kept walking.
He did not hurry. That was what frightened me most. Rain darkened his jacket, but his hands stayed visible at his sides, swinging with the calm rhythm of someone crossing his own property.
Ray pulled at my sleeve.
“Don’t look at him,” he whispered.
“I have to see where he is.”
“You have to listen.”
The canvas bag was wedged beneath my flannel, pressing against my ribs. Its hard corners dug into me every time I breathed. Ray had been willing to crawl through mud for it, willing to leave himself exposed on the road rather than abandon it. Whatever was inside had scared him more than the blood running down his face.
The stranger stopped twenty feet from the fence.
“Ray Mercer,” he called.
His voice was deep and flat. Not surprised. Not worried.
Ray’s fingers tightened around mine.
The stranger looked at me through the rain. “Step away from him, sweetheart. He needs a doctor, and I’ve got a truck.”
I almost believed him.
The farmhouse behind us was still dark. The open door moved slightly in the wind, revealing a thin slice of black hallway. There were no lights, no voices, no footsteps from inside. If the man really owned the place, why had nobody answered when I screamed?
Ray pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Don’t listen to him.”
The stranger’s expression hardened. “He’s bleeding out. You want that on you?”
“I called 911,” I said.
“No signal out here.”
“I know.”
“Then let me take him.”
He reached for the chain on the gate.
Ray grabbed my wrist and pulled me lower. “Get to the house.”
The stranger’s head tilted. “The house isn’t safe.”
That stopped me.
He smiled without warmth. “You heard me.”
A sharp metallic click came from behind the farmhouse.
Not the barn this time. The porch.
I looked toward the open door. A pale hand appeared around the edge, fingers curling over the wood. Someone was standing just inside.
The stranger saw me notice.
“See?” he said. “There are people inside. They’ll help.”
Ray tried to speak, but his breath caught. I turned toward him and saw his face had gone gray beneath the mud.
“Ray, tell me what’s happening.”
“Notebook,” he said. “Inside cover.”
“What?”
“The first page. Read it.”
The stranger stepped closer to the fence. “Don’t let him confuse you. He hit his head.”
Ray’s gaze fixed on mine. “Read it.”
The stranger grabbed the top wire and shook it hard enough to rattle the posts.
“Move away from him.”
I backed toward the farmhouse, keeping one hand under my flannel. Ray dragged himself after me, his boots leaving dark streaks in the mud. The stranger followed along the fence, searching for a place to get around it.
The gate chain clanged.
He had a key.
“Run,” Ray said.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Then pull me.”
I hooked both hands beneath his arms and hauled him across the wet grass. He cried out, but he did not stop me. His torn vest caught on the fence again, and a strip of leather ripped loose. I pulled until we reached the porch steps.
The hand vanished from the doorway.
I shoved Ray behind the porch railing and crouched beside him. The door remained open by that same narrow inch.
“What do you mean, the house isn’t safe?” I whispered.
Ray swallowed. “It’s not a farmhouse.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It belongs to them.”
“To who?”
He reached for the bag beneath my shirt. His fingers brushed the canvas but did not have enough strength to pull it free.
“Inside cover,” he repeated. “You need to know before you decide.”
“Decide what?”
Whether to trust him.
The words hung between us without being spoken.
The gate screeched open behind us.
I looked through the railing. The stranger entered the yard, followed by a second man in a dark cap. I recognized the second man from the truck below the hill. He carried something long beneath his coat, held close against his leg.
Ray saw him too.
“Back door,” he whispered.
The farmhouse door opened another inch.
A woman’s voice came from inside. “Bring him in.”
Ray’s expression changed. I had never seen fear like that on an adult’s face. It was not fear of pain or death. It was the fear of being placed back inside something he had escaped.
I pressed my shoulder against the porch post. “Who is she?”
“Don’t answer her.”
The stranger reached the first step.
“Ray,” he said, “you’ve made this difficult enough.”
Ray pushed himself upright with one hand. “You should have let the girl go.”
“She saw the crash.”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
The stranger looked at me. “She knows you’re carrying something.”
I felt the bag shift beneath my flannel.
Ray’s eyes closed briefly. “Run to the road.”
The second man came around the side of the porch. He was younger than the stranger, with a red mark along his jaw and rain dripping from the brim of his cap.
“There’s no vehicle up there,” he said. “The bike is wrecked.”
“Then we use the truck,” the stranger replied.
The younger man glanced at me. “What about her?”
“She comes with us until we know what she saw.”
My stomach tightened.
Ray moved before I could. He grabbed the porch railing and swung his boot into the younger man’s knee. The man staggered sideways with a curse. I heard something metal hit the boards beneath his coat.
“Get inside!” Ray shouted.
I seized the moment and pulled open the farmhouse door.
The hallway smelled of bleach, damp wool and old smoke. A single lamp burned in the room at the far end, though no light had been visible from outside. The woman stood beside it, wearing a gray sweater and rubber gloves.
She was not old. Maybe forty. Her hair was tied back tightly, and a thin silver watch circled her wrist.
Her eyes went straight to the canvas bag.
“Give me that,” she said.
Ray shoved himself across the threshold. “Don’t.”
The woman’s face remained calm. “You’re in no condition to make decisions.”
“That’s what you told Owen.”
The woman’s calm broke for half a second.
It was enough.
The younger man lunged up the porch steps. I pulled the door toward me, but he caught it with his shoulder. Ray slammed his weight against the door beside mine. Pain tore through his face, but he held it shut.
“Lock it!” he said.
I turned the dead bolt.
The younger man pounded on the other side. The door shook in its frame.
“Open up!”
The woman did not move. “You brought the notebook here yourself, Ray.”
“You made me.”
“You agreed to the arrangement.”
“After you threatened my daughter.”
The woman’s eyes flicked toward me. “You hear that? He’s trying to make himself sound noble.”
Ray’s breathing became ragged. “She’s not part of this.”
“She became part of it when she took the bag.”
I backed away from the door. “What is in the notebook?”
The woman smiled faintly. “Ask him.”
Ray leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his ribs. “Names. Dates. Payments.”
“Payments for what?”
The woman answered before he could.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
The pounding stopped.
For a moment, the silence felt worse.
Then the younger man said, “The truck is coming around.”
Ray pushed away from the wall. “We need another exit.”
I looked down the hallway. The room with the lamp had two doors, one leading toward the kitchen and one toward the back of the house. I could see a narrow strip of rain-brightness through a window at the end.
“Can you walk?”
“Not fast.”
“You don’t have to be fast.”
The woman stepped in front of the hallway.
“Ray, you know where this ends.”
He stopped.
She lifted one gloved hand. “You leave that notebook, and the girl walks out. You keep it, and neither of you gets past the kitchen.”
“Don’t believe her,” Ray said.
“You don’t have to believe me,” the woman replied. “Look around. There is one front door. The windows are painted shut. The back door has an alarm. The men outside will not hurt you unless you make them.”
The words were spoken like a warning, but they sounded like a confession.
I reached beneath my flannel and pulled out the bag.