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Uh-oh.
“Back to your house, kid. You, me, and your girlfriend are going on a little trip.”
No way. No fucking way is he going to put Ramie in danger again.
Smith unwrapped his hands so Wyatt could drive. He eased his car back onto a quieter Main Street and turned in the direction of home. In the rearview mirror, he swore he saw flashing red and blue lights in the distance, and as he drove farther away, he also swore they stopped at the municipal building. Either Smith had tripped an alarm or Ramie had told someone what was going on.
His tiny flash of hope dimmed fast. If cops were heading to the post office, then surely there would be cops at the house, and that was going to piss Smith off royally. Wyatt discreetly tightened his own seat belt. His adrenaline spiked as he committed to the plan.
Don’t tense up or it’ll hurt worse later.
Wyatt pressed on the accelerator, surpassing Main Street’s conservative twenty-five miles per hour through most of town, increasing the speed slowly enough that Smith didn’t notice until they were almost going forty.
“Slow down, kid, before someone flags you,” Smith said.
The fact that Smith wasn’t actively holding the gun in his hand gave Wyatt the courage to continue speeding up. He blew past the road he should have turned on, destination clear in his mind. One of the oldest homes in Weston had a fancy, waist-height stone fence around the property, rather than a simple wood one. Jackson had once joked how fancy-pants it was when the house it guarded was made of weather-worn logs that were constantly needing repair. But it was a county historical landmark so the town took care of it.
Hopefully, Wyatt wouldn’t get into too much trouble if he damaged the fence with his next act.
“Kid! Slow the fuck down.” He pulled out the gun but didn’t aim it at Wyatt. Not directly, though its existence was terrifying enough.
The house came into view ahead and Wyatt didn’t think about it anymore. He had to do this so Smith didn’t get away or hurt Ramie. He had to make all this up to her. He had to.
Wyatt closed his eyes, hit the accelerator, and swerved to the left.
Smith screamed.
After speaking with both Sheriff Bloomberg and a state trooper about everything they’d heard and experienced tonight, Bloomberg asked Brand and Ramie to wait back at the county sheriff’s office. For their safety and so he didn’t have his witnesses running around town getting in the way, Bloomberg had said.
Brand had argued, because the office was back in Daisy, which was too far away for his liking, especially if something bad happened. He couldn’t be so far away from his friends. Bloomberg had compromised and told them to park across the street from the municipal building. Officers were on the scene, the street was well-lit, and they would be easily available for further questions.
Brand drove himself and Ramie there in his pickup, both of them squirrely with nerves and adrenaline. He hated not knowing what was going on or where Wyatt was. Ramie sipped at a bottle of water she’d brought from home with trembling fingers. She’d already called the Roost and let them know what was going on—mostly. They got the gist that she wasn’t coming back in tonight.
Brand kept glancing at his phone, silently begging it to ring, and at one point an email notification popped up right when he looked. A quick flash of the subject line made his insides tighten. A hot flush spread through his chest. The DNA results were back. Did he look? Did he wait and do it with Wyatt? Did he need to know this right now with everything else going on?
Two state police cruisers zoomed by, lights flashing and sirens wailing, startling Brand into almost dropping his phone. Something was happening. He climbed out of the truck but this end of Main Street was quiet, other than the car still positioned by the post office entrance. They were in the middle of town and to the east. Ramie’s house was to the southwest from here with access to the highway to Amarillo due west.
Brand despised not being in the middle of all this. Waiting for information was not his strong suit. When Dad had his hand surgery back in January, Brand had been a stoic mess the whole time, silently worrying, despite it being a fairly routine procedure. He hadn’t truly calmed down until Dad was home safe, sound and still a touch loopy from the anesthesia.
Ramie came out and hugged him from the side. Brand draped an arm across her shoulders, so grateful to know his best friend was out of harm’s way tonight. But still insanely anxious to find out about Wyatt.
My maybe kid. Please be mine.
He squeezed his phone tighter. “I got the DNA results.”
“What? Have you looked?”
“Not yet. It won’t help what’s happening right now.”
“No, it won’t get Wyatt back safely, but it’s still the truth. You deserve to know it.”
Brand didn’t like showing weakness in front of others, but Ramie had been his best friend for years, and she was the first person outside his immediate family he’d ever confided in about his and Ginny’s baby. “Can you look? Please?” He shoved his phone at her.
Ramie took the phone, kissed his cheek, then started tapping the screen. It might have been a minute or ten hours that passed before Ramie let out a soft gasp. “You’re a match, Brand. Wyatt’s your son.”
“Fuck.” Something he couldn’t describe fled his body in that moment. Twenty years of wondering and regret. Two days of stress and the unknown. He felt lighter for a few seconds, until a new feeling blasted through him. An instinctive need to protect his son from the dangerous man who had him. “Fuck, I need to find Wyatt.”
“You can’t.” Ramie held him still with a fierce grip on his arm. “Let the police do their job. I know it’s hard, but you need to wait.”
