Page 3 of Desperate Creed

Then the hand fell away, and all she could see was the sidewalk as the phone’s screen slapped against the concrete.

“Tyler?” Frankie shouted into her own phone. “What the hell’s going on?”

Did he trip? But she knew he hadn’t. Had one of the men punched him? Was it really blood she had seen on his face?

She needed to dial 911, but she didn’t want to break the connection.

“Tyler? Are you okay? Answer me.”

Seconds passed. Finally a sliver of light returned then she saw the sidewalk. The phone started rising, and her view pulled back up. She heard a muffled voice. But it wasn’t Tyler’s.

“He was on his phone.” A man said, his voice deep and not happy.

The sidewalk flipped away, and a face filled the screen. Dark eyes squinted at her. A beak-like nose like a hawk and thick black eyebrows on a huge forehead. He pulled away and turned his head. He mouthed something to the other man. The movement was enough to reveal an ugly scar peeking out from under his shirt collar.

Frankie’s coffee mug crashed to the floor, and his eyes darted back to the screen. She held the phone at arm’s length while she squeezed and punched buttons. She needed to end the call. Finally, the screen went blank then returned to her screensaver. She slid the phone onto the countertop.

She couldn’t breathe. She was shaking and wrapped the damp towel tighter around her body. Her mind raced. She needed to do something.

The sound of salsa music vibrated against granite, and she jumped. Her phone came to life. The screen pulsed with Tyler’s number. Was it possible he was okay?

Without picking it up, Frankie reached over making sure she was out of the camera’s sight. She tapped the button and the screen came to life. But it wasn’t Tyler’s face.

A dark sky filled most of the screen with the glare of a lamppost. She could still see a slice of the man who held the phone at arm’s length. His silence told her that he had called back to get a better look at her. This time Frankie could see something smeared on the bottom screen. Dark red. Not just a smear but droplets. A splatter.

Oh god, was it blood?

Staying out of sight, she eased her hand across the counter and tapped the END CALL button. When she was certain the call had been disconnected, she grabbed the phone. Holding it as if it were a snake threatening to bite, she started to squeeze and click buttons until the screen went black, and until she was sure the phone was completely shut off. Not just on vibrate. Not just airplane mode, but off. Then she slid the contraption on the counter again, this time sending it away from her with such force it crashed against the stovetop.

Still, she stared at it almost expecting the salsa music to blare again. She was cold and trembling. Her heart pounded against her chest. She had been holding her breath, and now her breathing came in short gasps.

She needed to tell someone. She needed to dial 911. And yet, she didn’t dare turn the phone back on.

What the hell just happened?

2

Florida Panhandle

Ryder Creed could feel her watching.

Water lapped around him as he held his arms under the big dog. Despite the life vest that kept the dog afloat—and even with the security of Creed’s hands cradling him—the dog’s ears were pinned back and his eyes were wide.

“It’s okay. You’re doing great,” Creed reassured him using a low, soothing tone that had worked before to calm the dog. But that was in a small rehab tank. Maybe it was a mistake to move to the Olympic-size swimming pool. Perhaps it was too soon.

The dog was a new arrival to the K-9 training facility. Creed and his business partner, Hannah Washington had agreed to take him after his experimental surgery. Knight was a two-year-old, black-muzzled Belgium shepherd. He’d had lost most of his front right leg while serving in Afghanistan. His prosthetic was a marvel of science and medical technology. It still amazed Creed how well the dog had adjusted to his new artificial limb. Being submerged in the large body of water wasn’t only about adjusting to and using the new leg. It was also about trusting his new handler.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” Creed was saying when he noticed the dog’s nose sniffing the air. Knight could smell her. He knew there was an intruder. “It’s okay,” Creed told him, bringing one of his hands up out of the water to pet him. “Everything’s okay.”

From the corner of his eye Creed could see her tucked into the shadows of the fieldhouse. His sister, Brodie looked and acted more like a young girl. In many ways she was exactly as he remembered. For sixteen years he imagined her as that same eleven-year-old girl he’d watched skipping in the rain, crossing the parking lot and into a rest stop bathroom, only to disappear into thin air.

It was less than five months since they’d been reunited. Only two months since she’d come to live with him and Hannah.

Not unlike the Belgium shepherd, Brodie came with her own injuries that needed healing. So even now, he let her watch from the shadows when he really wanted to tell her she was spooking the dog. But acknowledging her presence might spook her. He knew she tried to hide even that. She was doing her best to be brave when everything around her was new and difficult.

She had gotten used to shoving her emotions aside during her captivity when there were other daily needs she had to deal with, like being hungry or cold or left in the dark. But despite her attempt at pretending she was doing okay, Creed could see the truth in her eyes. Just like the shepherd, Creed could sense her discomfort.

When Brodie first came to live with them, she followed him around as if she was afraid to let him leave her sight. Creed felt like he had a ghost silently stalking him from behind trees and around corners. She had been gone from him—gone from the world, really—for longer than she’d been with him. She was still gauging her freedom, testing and pushing the limits, reaching and feeling for the boundaries.