Liquid Smoke

FORTY-SEVEN

I dialed Carolina’s number twice as I sped from Mission Beach to Bay Park. No answer.

I called Carter. He answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” I yelled.

“Driving around,” he said. “I’m showing—”

“Get to my mother’s! Now!”

“Ten minutes,” he said and hung up.

I threw the phone at the floor of the Jeep, so angry for listening to her and letting her convince me she could take care of herself. Not taking Keene seriously enough.

I’d fucked up.

The Jeep hydroplaned through the puddles on Morena, spraying water like giant rooster tails. People were honking and flashing their brights at me as I swerved around them.

I slammed on the brakes in front of Carolina’s house, sliding nearly twenty feet before coming to a crooked stop. Carter’s Ram Charger did the same on the opposite side of the street.

“What happened?” Carter yelled through the rain.

“Tell her to stay in the car,” I yelled back, gesturing at Miranda as I drew my gun.

He yelled something to her and produced his own gun.

I sprinted up the walk and saw a light on through the front window. I felt Carter right on my heels.

I hit the front door with my shoulder at full speed, and it collapsed like cardboard. I went down with it and somersaulted into the living room.

There was a clatter in the kitchen, and when I looked up, Carolina was aiming her own gun at us.