Page 115 of Until Joy

“Lock every door. Every window. Don't open anything for anyone. I'm on my way.”

“On it.”

“Keep your eyes on Joy at all times.”

“Got it.”

I ended the call and immediately opened the group text.

GRAHAM: He called. Threatening to take Joy today. She's at November and Asher’s place.

Z’s with her. I'm thirty minutes out. This is our chance to get him.”

My phone started blowing up with texts.

WES: Calling backup. Stay on comms.

I burst back through the screen door. “I have to go. Emergency with Joy.”

Miss Laverne was already standing, her face pale with concern. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine. But I need to get to her now.”

“Go,” Delilah commanded from the kitchen. “Drive safe.”

I spun around and lunged out the kitchen door, the screen door slamming behind me as I sprinted for my truck. As soon as I was in, I had the engine roaring to life, and I reversed out of the driveway with tires spinning on gravel. The road from the Wylies’ to the Maysons’ house wound through Tennessee hills, mostly straightaways with a few steep grades. I'd driven it dozens of times, knew every curve. Not the best roads to be driving like a NASCAR driver, but I didn’t give a shit. Joy’s life was on the line.

I pushed the speedometer past sixty, then seventy. Too fast for these roads, but not fast enough. My phone continued to buzz with updates from the group, but I ignored it. Every second counted.

The first hill came up fast. Shit, I was going to have to slow down a bit.

I slammed my hand against the wheel.

“Fuck!” I didn’t want to slow down. But I knew this stretch, a long steep grade that bottomed out in a sharp right turn. I always downshifted here, used engine braking to control my speed.

I tapped the brake pedal.

Nothing.

This time I pressed against it, instead of tapping.

Nothing.

I pressed harder, pumping the pedal. My truck continued accelerating down the hill, picking up speed with every yard.

Seventy-five.

Eighty.

The speedometer climbed as gravity took over.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I pumped the brakes again. The pedal went straight to the floor with no resistance. No pressure. No stopping power.

Think, Wallace.

Eighty-five miles per hour down a steep grade with a sharp turn at the bottom.

I yanked the emergency brake. The truck shuddered, rear wheels locking briefly before the cable snapped with a sharp twang that I felt through the floorboard.