Page 102 of Distress Signal
. . .
FINN
“Finn,”Reagan whispered, half-asleep, from my side. “Your phone.”
I rose fully to consciousness then, recognizing the particular sequence of beeps and buzzes for what they were: a security system alert.
Sitting up as adrenaline spiked my blood, I scooted to the edge of the bed and reached for my phone.
Before I could fully make sense ofwherethe alert had come from, my phone rang with an incoming call from Trey.
“What the fuck, dude? I thought Reagan was at your house.”
I glanced over my shoulder, confirming my girl was, in fact, still there. Her brow furrowed.
“She is. I’m looking right at her.”
“Then why are the alarms going off at the guest house?”
We seemed to come to the conclusion at the same time, for we said in unison, “Aria.”
“I’m heading over,” I said, already on my feet and swiping an abandoned pair of sweats off the floor. “Call Lane.”
Hanging up before he could respond, I tossed my phone on the bed, pulled on a shirt, and walked into my closet. My lockboxbeeped as I tapped in the code, clicking as the locks disengaged, and I opened it, withdrew my gun, and closed it again.
“Finn.” Reagan stood directly behind me when I turned to leave the closet, now dressed in one of my tees. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Something tripped the alarm and motion sensors at the guest house,” I said. “Stay here. I’m going to check it out.”
“Like hell am I staying here.”
“Reagan,” I growled, gripping her upper arms lightly. “Please. I have no idea what I’m walking into, and I can’t put you in danger.”
She surprised me by nodding at my vehemence, then stepped closer until she was toe to toe, rising up slightly to press a single, hard kiss to my mouth.
“Be careful.”
“I’ll be right back,” I promised.
She followed me as far as the front door, where I left her on the promise that she’d arm the security system once I was out. I’d barely made it all the way off the porch when West slid to a stop in front of the house and threw himself out of his truck before he fully parked.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Trey called.”
“Disturbance at the guest house. I’m going to check it out.” My eyes darted to the door, to Reagan’s silhouetted figure. “Will you stay with Reagan?”
He saluted me before climbing the steps. As soon as Reagan let him in, I took off.
When I reached the guest house, I did a quick perimeter sweep, making sure no one was lying in wait outside. Though the exterior was clear, I cursed under my breath when I found the bottom left windowpane in the door—the one closest to the knob—smashed in, the door itself slightly ajar.
As gently and quietly as I could, I pushed the door wider. I did my best to step wide to avoid it, but the broken glasscrunching beneath my feet was as loud as gunshots, alerting anyone still inside to my presence.
The living room appeared to be clear, the high, full moon providing enough illumination to make out all the furniture in the room. Everything was where it should be.
Gun out in front of me, I turned right into the kitchen, crouched low as I rounded the peninsula.
A figure was sprawled out on the floor, the under-the-microwave light casting them in an orange glow. They were face down, head angled so they faced away from me, arms bent awkwardly beneath them.
Blood pooled around their head.
