Page 198 of Ride the Sky

That pit-in-the-stomach feeling grows.

He was in my house that day.

He took my cane.

He turned up the gas.

I shift my leg, wince, and remember more.

My nightmares the last four months. Not Aiden. But someone else. Another man.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

But there’s more. My brain grasps at the memories, at—

“Find what you’re looking for?” a voice says, snapping me out of my head.

I whirl around, blinking into a blinding bright light.

“Tripp, Jesus.” I lift a hand to my face, blocking out the harsh glare of the flashlight. My heart hammers in my chest. But I school my face into annoyed neutrality. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

His face is serious as he stares at me. “I wouldn’t want to do that now, would I?”

Gooseflesh pebbles across my skin, and I cross my arms.

The crunch of gravel. Wyatt stands behind us, fists clenched. “What’s goin on?”

“Nothing.” I stare at Wyatt, wishing I could talk to him telepathically. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. We’re all set.” Wyatt sticks out a hand, his wedding band glinting in the truck’s headlights. “Let’s go.”

But before I can take his hand, Tripp grabs my arm. “I need to talk to you.”

“Keep your fuckin’ hands off her,” Wyatt growls. He yanks me to his side then glares at Tripp. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, man?”

“You.” The flat tone in his voice makes me shiver. Everything about him has changed. Chameleon-like. Aiden-like. Tripp’s cold gaze drops to Wyatt’s hand. The wedding band. “You’re my fucking problem.”

Fuck.

I grip my husband’s arm. “Wyatt, he’s—”

It’s all I can get out.

Tripp swings.

The flashlight arcs in the moonlight, aimed directly at us.

Wyatt’s eyes shoot open, and he yells, “Fallon, move!”

He twists his body, trying to cover me, but the flashlight slams into his head. He tries to stand, reaching for me, but I watch in horror as he crumples to the ground, groaning. Blood streams down his scalp.

I scream as loud as I can. “Wyatt!”

“I’m sorry,” Tripp says. “He was in the way.”

I fucking lose it. Rage blooms inside of me. “You motherfucker,” I snarl, whirling around, ready to kill Tripp. “You’re dead.”

From out of his pocket, Tripp brings out a bunched white rag and presses it against my mouth.

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