Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,85
and scared to death, not for me but for the child I’ve barely begun to meet. Oh God, God no.
Boot tries to stick his head between the seats—the gap is narrow, the frame’s bent—and frantically licks the only part of me he can reach. My hand. I look down and see the blood drops on it shimmering like rubies. Can feel the bloody nose now, aching like a day-long sunburn. I caught a good one from the airbags, but they kept me—us—from getting slammed around too badly. Maybe I’m okay. Maybe the baby’s fine.
I don’t think I’m okay. I need help.
The windshield is an opaque mess of cracks. Can’t see a thing. Somehow, the car landed on its tires, but it’s tilting badly to the right.
I fumble around for my phone, then remember I slotted it into the cradle on the dash. The whole cradle’s gone. I try to bend across to grab it when I spot it wedged half-under the passenger seat, and have to pause and gasp against the pain, and once again, terror jolts through me. Stay with me, baby. Stay with me. My fingers graze plastic, and I manage to hook the cradle and get it onto the seat. My phone’s screen is cracked, but it lights up when I tap it. Thank you, Lord. I dial 911.
My head is hurting, and when I reach up to touch the left side, I find blood. That explains some of the mist that keeps fogging up my brain. I grab the phone and push my door open—it’s cranky, but not jammed—and fresh, cool air floods over me and helps me focus. I experiment with standing up, one hand gripping the frame of the door. It hurts, but I manage. I look through the back window. Boot seems all right—he’s barking and whining and scratching at the door. “Just a minute,” I whisper to him. “Hang on.” I don’t know if I’m really talking to him, or myself, or the baby. Maybe all of us.
That’s when I see the black SUV.
It’s idling near the next curve, maybe a quarter mile out. Just sitting there. I try to get a picture of it, but it’s already in motion when I snap the shutter; I don’t know if I got anything useful. Dammit. I’m suddenly shaking with fury, and for a half a second I even think about chasing it down on goddamn foot, but then sense comes back. Fear. The baby, helpless and dependent on me not being stupid. I just cling to the door and try to stay upright. I’m tired. So tired.
I’ve forgotten that I dialed the phone, so it’s a little surprise to hear a scratchy voice coming from somewhere near my right hand. I lift it, stare at the active call in confusion, then lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“This is the 911 operator. What is your emergency?” She sounds cool and calm as the fresh air. I scramble to get my thoughts together.
“This is Detective Kezia Claremont,” I say. At least I remember my damn name. “I’ve been in a serious accident.” I sound pretty good, I think. Until suddenly my knees give way without any warning, and thank God I have hold of that door, because it slows my fall into more of a kneel. It hurts. Everything hurts. “I need help. I’m pregnant. Please send somebody. Leaving phone on.” That’s all I can manage to say. I put my arms on the driver’s seat, rest my head on them, and slide away into the dark with only Boot’s frantic whines for company, and the voice of the 911 operator as distant as the stars as they whirl me away.
15
GWEN
I’m boiling with frustration on the ride home, and the letter from MalusNavis burns in my pocket like an ember. I call Kez but get her voice mail, and I leave her a message to call me. I find myself reading the letter again. You have a chance to save the lives of the people you love, but that’s going to be your choice, not mine.
I don’t know what he means, but I know he’s talking about Sam. Lanny. Connor. Even Vee. I call home. I can’t do anything else. And I’m relieved when the phone is answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Ms. P.,” Vee says. “Good news. Ain’t had to shoot nobody yet.” She sounds ghoulishly cheerful.
“This isn’t a game, Vee,” I snap. “You understand?”
“Yes ma’am.” Her tone goes instantly cooler. “Ain’t like