Cade POV
My boot slammed on the brake, and my truck skidded on the gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust that glowed in the late afternoon sun. A fat groundhog waddled across the road, taking its sweet time. My heart hammered against my ribs. Not from the near-miss with the animal, but from the sight just up the hill.
Tessa's farmhouse.
It looked wrong.
My little sister's place was always full of life. Flowers on the porch, a radio playing from the kitchen, the smell of something baking. Even when she was a kid, she couldn't stand quiet. Now, as I let the truck roll closer, the silence hit me like a physical thing. The porch was empty. No flowers. The front door was closed tight, but the screen door hung open, banging softly against the frame in the hot breeze. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Eight months in the mountains of Afghanistan, and my nerves were wires stretched too tight. This quiet wasn't peaceful. It was the quiet of a trap. Or a tomb.
I killed the engine and the silence got louder. July heat pressed down, heavy and wet. Crickets sawed in the tall grass. I sat for a full minute, just watching the windows. No shadows moved. No face peeked out.
"Tessa?" I called out, my voice too loud. "It's Cade! I'm home!"
Nothing. Not a sound.
My gut twisted. She was seven months pregnant. She knew I was coming sometime this week. She should be here. Ian, her useless husband, should be here. Something was off.
I got out of the truck, the gravel crunching under my boots. I didn't bother with my bag. Every sense was screaming. I moved toward the house not like a brother coming home, but like I moved through a hostile village low, quiet, using the truck and then the porch posts for cover. It felt stupid and right all at once.
The banging screen door was the only sound. I pushed it open and stepped into the living room.
"Tessa?"
The air inside was stale and hot, like nobody had opened a window in days. A blanket was crumpled on the couch. A cup of tea sat on the coffee table, the milk in it curdled into disgusting white chunks. Flies buzzed above it.
Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at my neck. Where is she?
"Tess!" I yelled, moving faster now. Kitchen empty. Dishes in the sink. Her bedroom bed unmade, closet open. Ian's side looked untouched. The nursery room was half-painted, a can of yellow paint and a brush on a drop cloth. But no Tessa.
My breathing started to come fast. Panic clawed at my throat. What if she fell? What if she's hurt and can't call for help?
I checked the bathroom. Empty. I was about to run back outside to check the barn when I heard it.
A tiny sound. Like a mouse scratching.
It came from the back of the house, near the laundry room.
I moved down the short hallway, my hand going to my hip where my gun usually was. It wasn't there. I was home. I'd left it locked in a case in the truck. Stupid.
The door to the small laundry room was shut. I pressed my ear against it.
A soft, hitched breath. A whimper.
"Tessa?" I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Are you in there?"
The whimpering stopped. Like someone was holding their breath.
I turned the knob. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open slowly.
The room was dark, the only light coming from a small, dusty window high up. The smell of detergent and damp towels filled the air. And then I saw her.
Huddled in the corner between the washing machine and the wall, sitting on a pile of dirty clothes, was my sister.
She was curled into a ball, her arms wrapped around her huge pregnant belly. She was wearing a big, baggy flannel shirt and thick sweatpants. In the middle of a Kentucky heatwave. She was shaking.
"Tessa?" I knelt down, my knees cracking.
She lifted her head. Her face was pale as milk, her eyes wide and red from crying. When she saw me, her mouth opened, but no sound came out for a second. Then a broken, ragged cry tore from her throat.
"C-Cade?"
She unfolded herself and lunged forward, almost falling. I caught her and pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my shoulder and sobbed deep, shuddering sobs that shook her whole body. I held her tight, my own eyes burning.
"Shhh, I'm here. I'm here now. What happened? Are you hurt? Is it the baby?"
She just cried harder, her fingers clutching the back of my t-shirt like she was drowning. I rocked her gently, whispering it was okay. But I knew it wasn't. The heavy clothes. The hiding. The terror in her eyes. This wasn't an accident. This was fear.
Her crying slowly turned to hiccups. She pulled back a little, her face wet with tears. She looked up at me, and what I saw in her eyes made my blood freeze. It wasn't just sadness. It was pure, animal terror.
"They… they said they'd kill the baby," she whispered, her voice raw.
"Who?" I asked, my own voice going deadly calm. "Who said that, Tessa?"
She flinched at the sound of my voice. She looked at the door like she expected monsters to come through it. Then, with trembling hands, she started to unbutton the cuff of her flannel shirt.
"They said if I told anyone… if I showed anyone…" Her words were a mess.
She pushed the sleeve up past her elbow.
My world stopped.
Her arm was a nightmare. Ugly purple and yellow bruises wrapped around her wrist like a vicious bracelet. And above them, covering her forearm, were long, angry red welts. Whip marks. Some were scabbed over. Some were fresh.
I couldn't breathe. I gently took her other arm and pushed that sleeve up. It was the same. Worse.
"Who did this?" The words came out as a growl. A hot, black anger I'd only ever felt in battle surged through me, burning away the panic.
She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, the sound of a car engine cut through the silence. Tires crunched on the gravel driveway.
Tessa's eyes went wider. A look of pure, absolute horror flashed across her face. She scrambled back into the corner, pulling her sleeves down, making herself small.
"They're back," she choked out. "He said he'd come back to check on me."
I stood up. The heat in my veins turned to ice. A cold, focused calm settled over me. The kind that came before a storm.
"Stay here," I said. "Don't make a sound."
I closed the laundry room door and walked back through the silent house. I didn't run. I walked to the front window and looked out.
It wasn't a truck belonging to any of her in-laws. It was a sleek, black sedan. A stranger's car. The driver's door opened.
A woman got out. She had dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She wore jeans and a simple black t-shirt. She looked strong, not scared. She looked right at the house, right at the window where I was standing.
She wasn't one of them. But she was here.
And as I watched her reach into her car and pull out a small, professional-looking camera, I knew one thing for sure.
The nightmare wasn't over. It was just beginning. And this stranger was part of it.