Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I send her another text, and another; of course, she doesn't reply. I do the same with my sisters, and it infuriates me I can't get in touch with anybody important to me right now. I don't know what we're gonna do. But I know that I have to find Cairstina.
We take the back roads to the Cathedral. Cars are parked under the overhanging branches of a tree. Someone's here. But who? I walk around the side, but the front door’s locked. I ring the bell, fully expecting no answer. I look up the Cathedral phone number and call MacGowen, but that also goes to voicemail.
We’ll have to find a way inside.
I hear a dog barking in the distance. Is that Bailey? What the bloody hell is he doing here? Where is he?
I turn to Tate. "Did you hear that?"
“Aye, brother, I did. Where is that coming from?"
“Every bloody door’s locked,” Mac mutters.
I don’t give it a second thought. I take my gun from the vest I’m wearing and smash the butt of it into a door panel. The glass shatters, I shove my hand through the open space, and unfasten the lock.
I hear someone approaching behind me.
“Hold them off, Mac.”
Mac turns around with a grin on his face. It’s one of his favorite parts of the job.
It's really quiet in here, quieter than I’m used to. Where’s Father MacGowen? I jerk my chain at Tate. "We need to find MacGowen," I say in a whisper. "He could be in danger, just like Cairstina.”
Tate’s eyes widen at something he sees behind me. I turn to the parsonage living room and give a start when I see Father MacGowen. He's either passed out or knocked out, on his side in the fetal position, his mouth gagged and hands bound. Somebody's been here before us. Where the bloody hell is she?
"See that he’s okay, Tate, will you?”
Tate nods. “Of course, brother, you know it.”
Father MacGowen stirs, and my heart soars with hope and relief. He’s alright. He’ll be okay, I know it.
Cairstina can’t yell to me wherever she is. I've never wished she had the gift speech more than I do now. But Bailey, if he hears me, maybe he can bark. Maybe he can make a sound? “Bailey!”
I shout his name again, and again, and to my immense relief I hear a bark, followed by a cry.
A slew of texts come to my phone, one after another.
We can’t be with each other anymore, Leith. I’m a menace to you and your family. You need to go now.
I slam my thumbs on the screen so hard I may break the phone. WHERE ARE YOU?
Silence. No response. Nothing.
I push into the kitchen and scan it, looking for something, anything at all that would give them away, when the back door opens, and my questions immediately cease. Dougal isn’t hiding from me at all. He walks straight in with his arm around Cairstina’s neck, holding a gun to her head, literally.
“Ah, there you are,” her brother says. “My, my, aren’t you familiar?”
“Let her go.”
“Let her go?” he asks, as if amused. “Now, why would I do a thing like that? She doesn’t belong to you. She never did.”
“She belongs to no one,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m ready to rip his fucking arm off. “And you ought to know that. She’s free, and always should’ve been. She never did you any harm.”
“And you know that, do you?”
She won't make eye contact with me. Why not? Does she really think all the things that she said to me in the text? Have I been mistaken all this time?
Knowing that settling down isn’t the life for me, that I’m entrenched too deeply in the chains of Clan life. Not when my life isn't my own and it never has been.
If I attack her brother right now, I could hurt her. If he pulls that trigger, she's dead, and my gut instinct says that he doesn't care if she is.
I look for Bailey.
We haven't spent the past weeks training this dog for nothing. He knows my commands, and he knows to protect her.
She finally looks at me, and when she does, I give her a signal silently. There’s a heavy potted plant atop Bailey’s rope. If she knocks it over, he'll be free to attack. I hold up three silent fingers, thankful that our entire communication up until this point has been silent, and we know how to read each other better than anybody else in the world. She doesn't need my words; she knows exactly what I mean.
On three.
I go down to two fingers, I hold up one, and then I make a fist. She gives a barely-perceptible nod. She knows the cues.
On three, she kicks over the pot holding Bailey's rope down, and I give the sharp command.