Jodie Bailey - Calculated Vendetta

This ride-along was nothing like drives together had been in the past, when she’d thought she’d laid claim to some part of his heart. Instead of laughter-fueled conversations, the vehicle seemed to expand with the heavy silence of two familiar strangers loosely bound by memory and what-might-have-been.

Stupid. She should have left from work or bolted from the apartment before he arrived and headed to John’s by herself. Should have called him and told him to let it go, she could write her article without his input.

But the truth was, she needed company, even if it meant more time with Travis Heath. After last night, the idea of going anywhere alone brought cold sweat.

In a way, having Travis along for the ride to John’s interview was a comfort.

And in a way, it was infinitely more dangerous than any mugger with a gun aimed at her head.

“You’re quieter than usual.” Travis’s voice bounced in time with the ruts in the dirt driveway that wound through the trees to John’s house. “I’m really not used to you not talking.”

Well, he should get used to it. Other than thank you for driving me—which she’d already said—there was nothing left to talk about. Getting into the whole conversation about why he’d walked away while using the army as a cop-out was too depressing. “I’m more tired than usual.”

Not for the first time, Casey wished she had Kristin’s boldness. Her friend spoke what she thought and got answers when she needed them. Those attributes made her a good personal trainer, even if it had cost her a few friendships over the years. At least she knew where she stood at all times. Unlike Casey, who could only sit and fume silently instead of launching her hurt into open air.

Casey dug her teeth into her bottom lip as a house appeared in a small clearing. There was a time when she would have reached across the seat and sought Travis’s hand for support. When she’d have been the one making the call last night, and he’d have stayed on the phone with her, his voice enough to soothe her fears and let her slip into sleep. But he’d backed off, and where did you run when the person you normally ran to was the one who’d hurt you?

Until yesterday she’d been sure she was done with grieving the dream known as Travis Heath.

Now, well, she’d cut away the bandages to find the wound still raw.

She exhaled loudly as Travis shifted the truck into Park, turning her attention from the man beside her to the house tucked into the woods. John Winslow’s house was a small one-story ranch likely built in the late seventies. The wood siding was stained dark, and tall, narrow windows broke the space. There was no grass, only a clearing covered in pine straw from the towering trees dimming the early afternoon light.

The air in the truck cab was stifling. Casey popped open the door and stepped onto the carpet of pine needles. High above, the wind whispered in the trees like quiet voices. The sound crawled along Casey’s arms like the echoes of a bad horror movie.

Travis slammed the truck door and came around to meet her, his brow furrowed. “Seems kind of quiet. You sure you got the address right? That this is the time you two agreed on?”

Right now, Casey wasn’t sure of anything. She pulled her phone from her hip pocket and checked the text John had sent right after he left the restaurant, then turned the phone so Travis could see. “He should be here.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and tilted her head toward the side of the house. “His car’s here.”

Travis drummed his fingers on the hood of his truck, scanning the roofline and the surrounding trees. “Know the feeling you get when something’s hinky? When the hair on the back of your neck stands up?”

“Paranoia because we were mugged last night?” Casey brought on the sass, desperate to deny she felt it, too, an odd sensation that even the air was disturbed.

“Paranoia? Really?” His eyes caught hers and held, the cocky little half smile she used to think was so cute tugging at the corner of his mouth. He broke contact and surveyed the yard. “No. It’s too quiet. No birds. No squirrels. Almost like something scared them into hiding.”

Casey tilted her head to the side, determined to avoid any more eye contact, and focused on the sounds in the woods around them. Other than the wind talking to itself in the branches above their heads, there was nothing. The silence filtered the day, almost as though every distant noise had to squeeze through the heavy air. “Know what? John told me once he has a dog. Called it a loudmouthed beast who barked at his own shadow. You’d think a vocal dog would react to a truck in the driveway.”

The lines on his forehead deepening, Travis turned toward the house and eased his shoulder in front of Casey as though he were taking point on a patrol, his head swiveling from side to side, watching every avenue as they walked the small path to the front door, where the house almost seemed to hold its breath.

Casey wanted to shove him out of the way, but the quiet hung heavier as they drew closer to the door, and the breeze tweaked her imagination, brushing fingers along her neck. She fought a shudder and eased behind Travis, willing to let him take the lead.

The front door stood inside a recessed stoop, the sun’s angle cloaking the entry in shadows.

Shadows could be hiding anything, including a man wearing a hoodie and brandishing a pistol. Last night’s fear layered over reality, making the warm afternoon instantly sinister. Casey’s feet ached to run to the truck and gun the engine until she was on the road, leaving behind only a trail of dirt and pine needles to show she’d been there. Her muscles twitched, fear plucking the strings.

She’d do it, too, tuck tail and shelter in the truck until Travis gave her the all clear, if running didn’t mean Travis and John could have a good laugh at her expense. No way would she let that happen.

At the front door, Casey reached around Travis, desperate for a way to remind herself this was broad daylight in the country, not a dark parking lot in town. She rapped her knuckles hard against the wood.

The door swung open with the force of the blow.

Travis stepped aside, shoving Casey squarely behind him. “I knew something was wrong.” The muttered words were low but impossible to miss, pumping even more fear into her system.

Fear that had to be misplaced. She was jumpy, wired from having a gun aimed at her. This was silly, the stuff of bad television movies. Real life didn’t play out in crime scenes and bloodshed. “Nothing’s wrong.” She tried to shove ahead of him, swallowing a bout of anxiety, but he stood firm, his shoulder blocking her way.

“Stay behind me.” The command in his tone worked, and Travis eased to the side of the door, keeping Casey tucked close to him. He swung the door open with a flat palm. “Winslow? You in there? It’s Casey Jordan and Travis Heath.”

No sound came from the house.

Casey’s skin crawled. From all her interviews with John over the past couple of years, she knew his past experiences had bred a man who would never leave his home unsecured. “What do we do?”

“We go in.” Travis shielded her as he crossed the threshold.

This was a dumb idea. What if John was on the phone? Or he’d overslept? “Travis...”

He ignored her.

The front entry opened into the living area, where a large leather sectional curved around the sunken living room. Narrow floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, the heavy curtains drawn, casting the room in dark shadows. The sole light from the front door fell across the center of the floor.

Casey stayed close to Travis, willing her sight to adjust to the dim interior after the daylight outside. She felt along the wall, hoping they weren’t making a huge, embarrassing mistake.