Page 48 of Haunting the Hunter
“Well, she’s lucky to have someone like you to protect her. That’s what a brother is supposed to do.”
I ignore her sentiment. “Does he hurt you?”
She looks away, shrinking into her seat. I notice the bruising on her arms where she has been clutching all night.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice cracking.
“You should report that.” I nod to her arms.
I can tell she’s fighting off tears, her voice cracking when she speaks.
“If I’m being honest… I am terrified of him.” She shakes her head. “I should have never moved here after our dad died.” Tears begin streaming down her face. “A brother issupposedto protect you, to keep you safe.” She cries into her hands, her breathing coming too quick. “I’m so fucking stupid…”
“What did he do?” I ask, my voice calm.
“I don’t know for sure… I was with them at the clubhouse last week—I only had one drink. But I don’t remember what happened after that.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I moved out last week… he said he wanted to apologize to me, so I met up with him. Obviously that was a mistake…” She exhales a large breath. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to know. I just want to get as far away from him as I can.”
My hands grip the wheel as the pieces begin to fall into place.
We sit in silence for the remainder of the drive due to no fucking radio signal, but I managed to cut the drive time.
“Thanks, Jack.”
I look at her, confused, until I remember I gave her Jack’s name, and nod.
“They mentioned a clubhouse. Where is that, exactly?”
She looks over at me, face mixed with concern and confusion.
“What are you going to do?” she asks in a low voice.
“Nothing. I just wanna talk to them.”
I wait until she’s safely inside her coworker’s house before speeding away. That fucker Allen better still be there.
It doesn’t take me long to find him.
I pull into the lot beside an old gambling hall, throw on my hoodie, and text Jack the update.
I parked a few spots over, the angle perfect.
Now we wait.
After ten minutes, the silence begins to press in too heavily, like the air’s being sucked out of the truck’s cab.
My chest tightens. It’s too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet I remember… Before the masks, before the rituals, before thescreaming. I used to have to sit like this, expected to be silent, to be still, obedient, with no control. When they brought in the boy, I knew what was coming, but I didn’t run.
I watched. I shook. And I never stopped.
I focus on my hands, trying to ground myself, but they blur in front of me.
I grip the wheel, knuckles white. But they don’t feel like mine any longer.
They’re too still. Too steady. Detached.
I blink. Once. Twice.
My mind races as the adrenaline bubbles to the forefront.
