Page 63 of Chasing Creed

“It’s okay, Grace. I’m okay.” He tried to reassure her as he struggled to catch his breath.

She was still panting. Clearly, she didn’t believe him.

The digital clock on the nightstand showed 1:45 a.m. Three hours of sleep. That was more than he expected. He grabbed his phone and checked messages.

Nothing. Relief! No one missing. No emergencies.

Nothing here.

But the dream lingered.

Wide awake now, all he wanted to do was get on the road and go home.

Grace would sleep in the Jeep. Probably even better since she wouldn’t have to keep an eye on him. He’d stop, get gas, fill up his Thermos with convenience store coffee. He’d text Hannah when he got closer to home. She wasn’t expecting him until around noon. He’d called her last night to let her know he and Grace would stay at the hotel again. But more importantly, he wanted her to tell Brodie and Jason that they’d found Kyle.

He checked messages again.

Norwich had given him an update when she dropped off his food. Kyle was stable, but in the ICU and “not out of the woods yet.” No internal damage, but he had lost a lot of blood and was severely dehydrated.

She’d also told him Deputy Perry was still in surgery. He would most likely lose part of his leg. Neither man would be giving verbal statements for a while.

This was one of those crime scenes Creed was anxious to leave behind. It took only minutes to pack up. The wet chill in the air felt good, better than the stuffy hotel room. Even driving five hours in the dark didn’t bother him. The bigger challenge would be trying to erase that image of Brodie. Her body coiled up in the trunk of a rusted old vehicle. Black sludge poured in and threatened to swallow her whole.

She’d come back into his life less than a year and a half ago. In that short time, he knew she was stronger, healthier, confident, and more self-reliant than the woman he’d met in a Nebraska hospital bed. For sixteen years, he had no idea whether she was dead or alive. And even when he imagined her alive, he worried it came with pain.

Creed was only fourteen when Brodie disappeared. Still a kid himself. The sense of obligation and responsibility smothered any chance he had of being a normal teenager. His mother dragged him all over the country, looking, searching, hoping to find Brodie.

So, driving at night, in the rain or snow for miles and hours, didn’t bother him. At fourteen, he relieved his mom from behind the wheel, no matter how busy the stretch of interstate or how narrow the gravel road. They had spent so many hours together, just the two of them, for years on end. She became his homeschool teacher, his mentor, his confidante. When he told her he was joining the Marines, she cut him off. Told him she couldn’t bear to lose another child. And yet, in cutting him off from her life, she did lose him.

Now, they couldn’t be in the same room for more than thirty minutes before running out of conversation. Even finding Brodie couldn’t seem to mend all the rips and tears that searching endlessly for her had created.

Hannah said it was because his mother felt guilty for giving up on Brodie. Self-preservation finally forced her to seek out and make a life for herself. But Creed didn’t give up. The business that he and Hannah created had begun with the simple mission of him being able to continue the search.

Brodie found. Alive. Back home.

So why did all of it still feel so fragile to him? Why did he still feel he needed to protect her at every turn?

Iris Malone’s approaching trial amplified all those fears, bringing them to the surface once again. Brodie’s testimony would make her go over the painful details all over again. Details she had worked so hard over the last year to tackle and leave behind.

He knew she was strong. She survived. Of course, she was strong. But deep down, Creed worried reliving all that she’d suffered might break her all over again.

43

Thursday, February 19

Florida Panhandle

Brodie raced through the forest. Her breaths came in a rhythmic huff-hiss. Her heart pounded. The stitch in her side deepened, but she didn’t slow down.

Her feet lifted and moved from memory. She hurdled over fallen logs and exposed roots, trying not to skid on wet patches of pine needles. The path narrowed. She ducked under branches. Waved her hand in time to swipe at a spider’s web. Watched ahead for snakes hanging in her way.

Behind her, she could hear the wet chuffing and the scrambling thud-thump trying to catch her. She didn’t dare look back, or she’d lose her footing.

Almost there.

Twigs whipped at her face and snagged her hair. Her knees ached, but her feet were light and relentless. Her lungs burned. Her heartbeat was a steady thump-thump banging in her ears. One more log and some extra deadfall. A last-second duck under a branch, missing the snake draped over it.

And just when she thought the stitch in her side would explode, she shot out of the shadowed woods and into the bright clearing.