One Eye Open. Karen Whiddon
you think they’ll catch us?”
One corner of his mouth twisted. “Eventually. For a while they’ll keep going down that access road, thinking we’re just ahead of them. But once they realize we pulled off somewhere…” As he spoke, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
His profile seemed hard and angry. No doubt he still believed she’d lied about her connection to the biker gang.
Biker gang. Alex a murderer. Hard to even think of using the words together in a sentence. Never mind DEA and FBI. Another shiver went down her spine.
“I’m not a member of Hades’ Claws.” Her words came out in a furious, staccato burst.
“A rival gang?”
“Of course not. No.”
“You don’t sound too certain. What about this ‘pack’ you mentioned?”
Alarm clogged her throat. He’d caught her accidental slip. “It’s a nickname, an inside joke among my relatives,” she said. “It’s what we call ourselves. No gang, just family. You know how family can be.”
“Yeah. I had a family once.” The grim savagery in his voice made her catch her breath.
“How long ago?” she asked softly. “How long ago did it happen?”
He shook his head, a muscle working in his jaw. With a white-knuckle grip, he held on to the steering wheel. “It’s been eighteen months.”
Eighteen months. Last year, early spring. Alex had called her, told her he’d taken a new job, one that would let him move from the city back to the Catskills. Still only a few hours away, he’d said, knowing she missed him. After they’d graduated from college, he’d left her once before to go alone on an extended winter tour of the northern cities. Seattle, Vancouver, Boise, Helena, Bismark. Then east to check out Phillie and Boston and New York. His absence had made her sad, then furious, wishing she’d gone with him.
When he’d finally returned to the small town of Leaning Forest, he’d told wonderful stories. Not of blood or murder or mayhem, but of ordinary, city-human things. Rush hour and crowded subways, poodles with painted toenails and corner hot-pretzel vendors.
They’d laughed together over his tales. In her quiet life as the town librarian, she’d secretly envied him the adventure, the experience, never dreaming that one day she would venture forth from her comfortable existence in search of him. Never expecting him to go missing, be accused of murder. How peaceful her old life seemed now.
“Eighteen months,” she repeated. “And you’ve looked for revenge ever since?”
“I’ve been looking for your brother,” he said. “As soon as I got out of the hospital, I started searching. Alex went underground. Obviously, he doesn’t want me to find him.”
She let that one go, focusing on the word hospital. He’d said he’d nearly been killed. “Did it take you a long time to recover?”
He gave a curt nod.
Less than two years. In her own life, a lot had happened in that time. She’d lost a fiancé, misplaced her brother. Meanwhile, this man’s entire family had been ripped away, brutally murdered in circumstances that made her brother look guilty.
“I’m sorry.” She knew her words were inadequate, but she meant them nonetheless.
In response, Carson accelerated again.
Brenna got the message and closed her mouth. The digital clock on the dashboard showed 1:30 a.m. Late for humans, but prime hunting time for those of her kind. Glancing at the shadowy woods as they flashed past, she wondered if any of her people roamed there. Snow had begun to fall, the dainty white flakes becoming thick, heavy ones the farther north they traveled. Soon Carson slowed the vehicle to a crawl, his headlights reaching only a few feet ahead of them on the snow-covered road.
A sign proclaimed they were on the outskirts of Albany, the state capital.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I got a lead that some of the gang is holed up in Hawk’s Falls, near the Vermont border.”
Mostly wilderness. Her kind of place. She allowed herself a small smile. As a huntress, her tracking skills were unparalleled. If Alex hid anywhere in a forest, she would find him.
“How long before we get there?”
He shook his head in the clumsy manner of a wolf cub shaking off snow. “We won’t get there tonight,” he said, his deep voice sounding gravelly. “It’s late, and the storm’s getting worse. I need some sleep.”
She sat up. “I’m not tired. I’ll drive.”
He drummed on the steering wheel. “I don’t think so.”
“I want to find him as much as you do,” she reminded him. “You sleep, I’ll get us there. It’s not too far.”
“We’re pulling off at the next town. We’ll take a motel room for the night.”
“But—”
“We have to stop sometime.”
“I’ll stop when I find my brother.”
He shook his head again. “We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
“If we’re not snowed in.”
“I’ve got chains.” He shrugged. “And there’s always a plow.”
She tried not to grind her teeth. “Look, I really think—”
“Enough.” His tone was sharp enough to cut a coyote off in mid-howl. “This is not a democracy. We’re stopping and getting some rest. End of subject.”
Brenna glared. “Fine. You get a room. I’ll stay in your vehicle.”
“Right.” He snorted. “It’s ten below and snowing, and you want to stay here?”
Put that way, her words did sound…unusual.
“I don’t want to waste money on a motel room. I can rest here. This is comfortable enough for me.”
“Money?” He gave her a long look. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay. We’re sharing a room, anyway.”
At her sputter of protest, he flashed her a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “Look, I’m not going to attack you. I don’t want sex with the sister of my family’s killer. I’ll make sure we have two beds.”
Safe. If only he knew. She suppressed the desire to growl. “I’m not worried.”
“Of course not.” His tone mocked her. “But like I said, until we find Alex, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“I don’t want to be that close to you.”
“Tough.”
She took a closer look at the intense man beside her.
“Fine,” she conceded. “I want to keep an eye on you as badly as you do me.”
“Then it’s settled.” In silence he drove on, windshield wipers slapping ineffectively against the blinding snow. He handled the vehicle with the ease of long familiarity. In the blizzard, the streetlights shone like dim halos, the occasional car or semi looming up huge, then lumbering away, like brief scenes from a surreal, homemade movie.
An exit sign indicated available lodging. They left the freeway, turning right and fishtailing on the snowy road.
“Slow down,” she said.
Instead of commenting, he pointed. “There.” Clustered together were several older motels. A red neon sign at the first one indicated a vacancy.
Carson pulled into the snow-covered lot, parking around back, out of sight of the brightly lit office. With