“Not like that.” Colie’s tone was flat. “She died. The ambulance took her.”
At Jenessa’s side, Mara’s quick inhale matched her own shock, tinged with a well of pity for these children. “And . . . and your father?”
Silence.
“Could you at least tell me your last name?”
Violet brightened. “It’s Hollis! I’m Violet Jeamine Hollis.”
Colie rolled her eyes. “Jeanine.”
“And what was your mom’s name?” She nearly tripped over that word in the middle—was. What the reality of it meant for these kids. How long ago had she died? Was there no father in the picture? Had they somehow slipped through the cracks, been left to fend for themselves? Maybe they were in foster care.
Everything in her wanted to fire more questions at them and push for answers. But there were already shadows under Colie’s eyes and Violet’s chewing had paused, her slow blink attesting to the possibility that she might fall asleep at any moment, mouth still full.
“Tessa,” Colie finally answered.
Tessa Hollis.
Jenessa looked over her shoulder at Sam. He nodded. He’d do his cop thing—look up the name, confirm what little they knew of the kids’ story. But for now . . .
“Colie, I don’t want to bombard you with questions. But I really do need to know if you’re sure there’s no one worried about where you are right now.”
Quiet seconds ticked by until, finally, for the first time since she’d discovered Colie, Violet, and Cade Hollis in the cottage, the oldest girl met her eyes. “I’m sure.”
Well, at least she knew one thing, then. She wouldn’t be returning to the Everwood tonight.
4
He heard the explosion before he saw it. Its heart-stopping boom shook the earth—rattling the ground underneath his Army-issued boots until his knees hit the grass.
The smoke came next—acrid and black—tumbling over him in a cloud.
Then, when his eyes dared to squint and open, the sight of the flames, grappling toward the sky even as they fanned in every direction.
And finally, the realization. The village boys.
The ones who came out to watch every day as Lucas’s unit worked on the fence around freshly plowed fields. The ones who spoke in broken English while laughing at his attempts to master Dari.
The ones who’d been kicking around a ball in the same place where a scorching blaze devoured the terrain.
He was on his feet and running, yelling—at the boys, at his walkie-talkie, at his closest buddy working a mile away. And no one could hear him—no one—he knew it.
And then he saw the bodies.
He saw Tashfeen.
He . . .
Lucas sat up with a jolt, heart thrashing against his chest and the searing pain he knew too well racing up his arms. Great, he’d been scratching at them in his sleep again. His bed sheet was twisted around his legs, and he must’ve thrown off his comforter at some point.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Only 11:15?
He fell back against his pillows, willing his panting breaths to slow. Same old nightmare but at least he’d woken earlier than usual. And come to think of it, he’d gone a good three and a half weeks without the dream.
Regardless, he’d need to get up, walk it off, if he had any hope of sleeping the rest of the night. He forced himself to sit up again, swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood and padded, barefoot, across the room and back again.
After half a year living in this room, he’d probably tread a pattern into the tasseled area rug by now. Jen had joked once that even from across and down the hall she could hear the creaking of old floorboards at night when he paced. He’d mumbled something about being a fussy sleeper.
But she wasn’t dumb. Kit had picked up on the nightmares in recent summers when he’d stayed at the farmhouse. Jen and the others likely had, too.
He paused halfway across the room. Wait . . . Jen.
Had she ever come back to the Everwood tonight? He’d heard Mara and Marshall return nearly two hours ago, their voices carrying upstairs. He’d seen Sam’s vehicle pull into the lot soon after and had considered going downstairs to check in. But then of course they’d ask why he’d never shown up at Jen’s house for the party and he’d be caught between giving a vague explanation about Flagg’s presence, which would only invite more questions, or flat-out lying, which would only leave him feeling guilty.
So he’d holed up in his room instead. And apparently the rest of them had taken his lack of response to any of their earlier texts and calls as a signal that he didn’t want to be bothered. He should’ve been relieved.
But later when he’d heard footsteps on the stairs, in the hallway, there’d been a pair missing. He’d recognized Sam’s heavy steps and Marshall’s usual gait. Where was Jen?
Lucas moved to his guestroom door. Wouldn’t hurt to check on her real quick. But he stopped himself before leaving his room, realizing he only wore his gym shorts. He backtracked, grabbed a t-shirt, and pulled it over his head. Paused again.
It’s not like Jen had never seen his scars.
Still.
He reached for a hoodie and tugged it on as he edged into the hallway. Keeping his steps light, he covered the distance to Jen’s room and stopped outside her closed door. Should he knock? What if she was asleep? But how else would he know . . . ?
Her car.
Obviously.
He moved to the open staircase and made his way down. Cold night air enfolded him as he stepped onto the Everwood’s porch, its boards chilled under his feet. He walked to the far edge and peered into the dark, looking for Jen’s car. There were only a few guests this weekend, so it wouldn’t be hard to pick out.
If it were here. Which it clearly wasn’t.
Where are you, Jen?
Jenessa crouched behind the old, ripped chair in her parents’ attic—her attic—squinting into the dark, looking for the moving shape that had chased her here. She’d come up here on a whim, hoping to find a crib for Cade among the mess of abandoned furniture and boxes and bags filled with who knew what.
Instead, she’d found a bat. Or rather, it’d found her. Which was when instinct had taken over and she’d gone into hiding.
But she couldn’t stay up here forever. She had three sleeping kids downstairs, all huddled into one guest bedroom on the second floor—Colie and Violet sharing the bed and Cade in an emptied-out dresser drawer she’d fashioned into a temporary cradle.
Either kill the bat or make a run for the door. Fight or flight, fight or flight . . .
Musty, chilled air wrapped around her and she blinked against the dark as a flutter of wings sounded overhead. The bat’s blurry outline whooshed and dove toward the opposite wall, then perched in front of the circle window where moonlight slanted in. Now’s your chance.
Jenessa crept forward, the tap of her slippers hopefully soft enough not to alert the creature, her fingers clenched around the handle of an old badminton racquet. She could do this—just whack the bat and pray the racquet did its job.
But if she did manage to kill it, what then? What did a person do with a dead bat?
At least she was dressed for the battle—sweatpants and a tee, hair piled into a messy knot underneath an old football helmet she’d found after first encountering the bat. She neared the window, the helmet heavy on her head. She held her breath, lifted the racquet—