We All Sleep Alone (Finley Creek #11) - Calle J. Brookes Page 0,100

back in the woods for some reason he’d long forgotten.

The concussion and knock to his face then had felt like this.

It had hurt like hell, but he’d lived.

Something was wrong. Someone nearby was crying. He forced his eyes open.

One was swollen shut. His shoulder had been bandaged and elevated. Oliver sat whimpering at him from the kennel nearby. Oliver; that’s who he’d heard crying.

Allen lifted his hand toward his injured shoulder.

That’s when he remembered.

“Izzie?”

Fear shot through him when she didn’t answer. “Iz?”

The side door jerked open, and a man hopped in.

Allen reached for the gun before he recognized the tall man standing there. He swore and dropped the pistol to the table next to the bed. “Rafe! What in the hell are you doing here?”

Someone darted around him. Exactly who he’d wanted to see.

Izzie crawled onto the mattress, her hand going toward his forehead. “I found help.”

Allen sank back onto the bed. He felt like shit. The last thing he remembered was her helping him to the bed and quickly bandaging his shoulder, before forcing a pain pill into his mouth with some water. “I’ll say. I didn’t even realize you’d left.”

“I know. You’ve been out of it.”

“I guess this is my cue,” Rafe said. He helped Allen get himself off the end of the bed. Allen wouldn’t admit it, but the man’s hand did help him steady himself.

Last thing he wanted to do was to plant his face on the ground again.

He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t wanted to worry her. Ridiculous, since she was as aware of the precariousness of their situation as he had been.

“Chance is going to drive the van,” Rafe said quietly, and Allen finally looked away from Izzie. There had been tears on her cheeks. Tears. Izzie had never cried even once during this entire adventure. “We’re going to hide it at the new Barratt. You and Iz are going to check in to a penthouse suite—Turner’s suite, actually. You’ll stay there until you get the all clear. Houghton is already getting what we’ll need to fix you up in the hotel. Including any medical supplies we might need. He and Jillian are seeing to it.”

“In the meantime, Rafe is going to see to the GSW,” Izzie said, wrapping Oliver’s leash around her wrist. The puppy was terrified. Just sat watching with big brown eyes so full of fear.

Allen’s eyes met Izzie’s. He wanted to pull her closer and hold her—and the dog. He wasn’t about to. Not in front of Rafe.

Not without talking to her first.

Things had just changed between them again.

83

Izzie had been in South Padre Island for seven days—seven days longer than Jake had liked. He’d hated knowing where she was and not being able to get to her.

Now, he’d finally made it down there. He was getting impatient.

Jake had been to the Barratt Finley Creek a few times before.

The most recent was when Annie had adopted her three sons. The owner of the Barratt’s wife, a former TSP detective that Jake had worked with before, had thrown Annie a surprise celebration party. The Barratt—SPI had a similar look. Was slightly smaller. Maybe.

Jake wasn’t exactly dressed for visiting the Barratt, but the man with him was. Elliot wore the suit like it was a second skin. Jake was more at home in jeans and a T-shirt and work boots. He was what he was. His grandfather and brothers still worked as fishermen off the coast of Italy. Jake and his brothers had spent many years on the water, helping in the boats.

That was not a life he wanted to repeat, but damn if he didn’t respect it. Understand it.

No, he was far better at what he did now than what he had done, then.

“I hate this.” Nothing of the situation had settled right around his shoulders.

Someone was awfully eager to get Izzie back to Finley Creek all of the sudden. It stemmed from the district attorney’s office this time. It didn’t feel right.

Jake needed to trust his gut.

“No kidding. She’s needed to testify; we can’t deny that. So is Jacobson. We have the sonsofbitches now. We need to run with it while we can,” Elliot said.

He’d pushed hard for this, from the moment his brother had called to report what had happened to Jacobson a week ago in South Padre Island.

It had been a long seven days.

It had been easy enough after that to track all the suspects’ movements and narrow it down to who had been in that area at