A wicked gust of winter wind buffeted Amanda Hawthorne
toward the front entrance of her brother's home. She wrapped
her flimsy coat tighter around her body and lowered her
head. Another cold blast nearly knocked her down. Even the
weather fought to keep her out of Vince's house. Well, this
freak ice storm wouldn't win, and neither would her brother.
He'd be furious, but she was staying. Just until she found
another job.
She breathed in, hoping to kill the perpetual
French–fry smell that permeated her clothes from her
final shift at Jimmy's Chicken Shack. She could have lived
with the odor and her aching feet, but she couldn't take his
octopus hands, his foul breath or his large body trapping
her against the wall in his storage room. She shuddered at
the memory. She wouldn't go back. But first, she had to face
Vince.
With a deep breath, she unlocked the door. "Big brother,
I've got bad news. You may have houseguests for a while—"
Her voice trailed off. The photos that had lined the
entryway hall lay shattered on the tile floor. The small
table near the doorway teetered on its side, crushed.
"Vince?" Her heart thumped like a panicked rabbit.
She ran into the living room. The place was in shambles.
"Ethan?" Oh, God. Where was her son?
She rounded the couch and skidded to a halt. Vince lay on
the floor in a pool of blood, eyes staring up at her,
sightless. A hole in his chest, a gun in his hand.
Her knees shook and she swayed. No.
She whirled around the room, frantic, searching. "Ethan!"
she screamed. He had to be here. He had to be okay. He was
only five. "Ethan, where are you?"
Deadly silence echoed through the house. Her body went numb.
This couldn't be happening. Her son was her life.
Then she saw it. A small, bloody footprint on the wood
floor. Streaks of red trailed across the carpet toward the
entertainment center. So much blood. Too much blood.
"No!"
A horrified, wounded cry ricocheted through the quiet room.
The sound came from her.
Shaking, her mind whirling through unthinkable images, she
followed the blood to the cabinet. Sobs clutched her throat
as she tossed aside a slew of DVDs dumped in front of the
oak furniture. Bracing herself for the worst, she held her
breath and opened the door.
Empty.
She clutched at the wood to keep herself from collapsing.
"Ethan!" Her stomach roiled. She should never have left him.
Ever!
A choked whimper broke from behind another section on the unit.
"Ethan?"
She snatched the brass handle and yanked it open to reveal
her five–year–old huddled in a ball, rocking
back and forth. Alive.
Amanda's knees quaked with relief. She couldn't stop the
tears that poured down her face. Her son was alive. She
snatched him from the cabinet and folded him into her arms.
She couldn't stop touching him. His arms, his legs, his
hair, his tear–streaked face. With a trembling hand,
she stroked his blood–stained pants. "Are you hurt?"
He shook his head. "U–Uncle Vince."
"I know, little man. I know." She rocked him back and forth,
her chin on his soft hair. His small arms clung to her as if
he would never let her go. "It's okay. Mommy's here." She
repeated the words over and over again, as much for herself
as for Ethan.
She shot up a thankful prayer, then her gaze fell to her
brother's body. Blindly, Amanda searched for the cell in her
pocket to call 9–1–1. She pulled out the phone
and started dialing.
Ethan grabbed her hand, his eyes wild with panic. "No,
Mommy. Uncle Vince said for us to run away."
She clasped Ethan to her, trying to calm him even as an icy
wave of terror threatened to freeze her from the inside.
Vince had been a stand–and–fight kind of guy. A
cop. If he'd said that, then they weren't safe in this
house. Maybe not safe anywhere.
"Where?" she murmured. "Where can we go?"
Ethan wrapped his arms tight and squeezed. "Blake. Go to
Blake," he whispered in her ear, his voice shaking with a
terror no child should ever feel.
She stilled. "Where did you hear that name, little man?"
"Uncle Vince." Ethan buried his face in the crook of her
neck. "Go to Blake."
Ethan stuck his thumb in his mouth, something he hadn't done
in over a year.
Go to Blake? Why would Vince say such a thing? Blake Redmond
hated her brother. No way was she going to Blake for
anything. She'd take care of herself and her son.
Pressing Ethan's face against her shoulder, she ran to her
brother's body. With a gulp, she crouched down. She snatched
the gun from Vince's hand for protection, hurried to his
desk and wrenched open the drawer. Thank goodness. The
grocery money was still in the bank bag. She stuffed it and
the gun into her purse.
Amanda carried Ethan to the front hallway, pried her son's
arms from around her and set him down. "We're getting out of
here, Ethan." She kissed his forehead, then bundled him into
his navy–andorange coat, scarf and gloves. She tugged
on his hat and covered his ears.
Ethan sneaked a look into the living room at Vince, and his
face went blank. He'd shut down. Amanda gave his hat a last
tug. "Don't worry, Mommy will take care of you."
With Ethan in her arms, she raced out of Vince's house into
the cold late–November night. How would she ever make
things all right? She had nowhere to go, no one to help her.
She only knew they had to get away.
Hands shaking, she unlocked the car, tossed her purse inside
and settled Ethan into his booster seat. He scooted back.
She brushed his hair aside. "We'll be safe."
Someone grabbed her from behind. "You won't keep the
promise," the deep voice sounded in her ear.
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