Paint It All Red (Page 19)

I try calling Lana’s phone, cursing when I realize she must have already switched burners again. This one is no longer an active number.

A different screen pops up, one I know too well. “They’re reading heat signatures? Why?” I ask, watching as more and more red dots join into the middle of the street, everyone heading for the exit.

“For whatever their endgame is. That monitor is linked to his phone, bringing up any screens he brings up—”

The monitor shuts down, and Hadley curses. “He apparently didn’t want me watching that part.”

She waits, staring at the other screens, but none of them shut down.

“So he knows you’ve hacked him?”

“Like I said, he’s brilliant. He probably has a system set up to alert him of any interference. He doesn’t seem to mind us watching this, but he wants his phone a secret.”

“Because he’s running this show from that phone, and he doesn’t want us knowing what comes next,” I say, worried.

A screen flips to a residence where an older man and an older woman are sitting in their living room. They’re right across from where Lana would have been assaulted.

They’re talking about the madness going on outside and how they plan to wait it out, when suddenly the TV flicks on, and a masked face comes into view. Instead of the mirror mask Lana was wearing, it’s a red mask.

“Get out, Whitmires! Get out now!”

The woman and man both scream, and the man clutches his heart, his eyes wide in horror. That’s all the prompting they need.

They don’t even bother grabbing a bag before rushing out.

The screens all change again, and I try to focus on the ones that seem the most important.

“How is he viewing all this from one phone?” I ask Hadley.

“He has a system set up to flip between screens, but he can minimize up to five at a time and watch them in thumbnail size. I wonder if he’ll go house to house with that tactic.”

“What happens if that tactic doesn’t work?” I ask more to myself than her, dread creeping up my spine.

There has to be a reason they’re focusing on evacuating the town.

My eyes hone in on the monitor with the most activity. The deputies are scattered, all of them looking angry and desperate to keep people in the town. One even punches a civilian, but two men grab the deputy and sling him into a car.

He backs off when one pulls a gun on him, and the civilians help the fallen man back to his feet before backing away into a car.

“They’ve bound them together to stand up to the sheriff and his men,” I surmise.

“No one will fight for the town, and after the show they put on with the broadcast, no one wants to be there when the sheriff goes down either,” she says, but then sucks in a breath.

She turns to face me, her eyes wide. “I think I know where Lana is.”

“Where?”

She gestures to the screens. “Who’s missing?”

Chapter 13

Don’t impose on others what you yourself do not desire.

—Confucius

LANA

The door slings open, and I watch through the wooden slats of the closet door as the sheriff stomps in, angrily slamming the door behind him. He grabs an empty glass off the table by his recliner and slings it across the room. It shatters against the wall as he roars like a beast enraged.

For a few long minutes, his head hangs, his chest heaves, and he grips the sides of the chair for support. He always puts up a good front, but he’s as mortal as the rest of us.

My smile kicks up as he predictably goes to the bar in the living room, opening the door and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. His hands are shaking when he pours a glass and drinks it down quickly.

Any time the pressure mounts, the sheriff has to have a drink. But he can’t let his deputies see him carry a bible and a glass of whiskey. He can sentence innocent people to a gruesome death, but being so weak as to need a drink is simply unforgivable. Not to mention shameful.

I’d roll my eyes, but I’m busy watching as he takes his gun off, putting it by the door.

Finally.

“You’ll pay for this,” the sheriff hisses, glaring at my brother and me as we get carried out of the courtroom.

“He was with us!” I shout again, staring frantically at the jury as they continue to wrangle me out. “They’re hiding the truth! They’re suppressing evidence! This is just a fucking witch hunt, and my father is being framed!”

“Just make them show you our statements!” my brother bellows as they finally haul us all the way out.

As soon as the doors seal shut, they reopen, and the sheriff stalks out.

Cuffs are being put on our wrists, but they can’t lock us away for long. It’s on film. We’re in contempt of court and nothing else.

“Put them in a cell until this damn thing is over. I won’t deal with them again until I have to,” the sheriff barks. Then those cold eyes turn to us. “You’re making a deal with the devil by betraying the souls of the innocent. Your father is guilty. And I’ll make sure he hangs for his sins.”

He starts to walk back inside as we start demanding to be turned loose.

The sheriff turns just as we reach the corner, and he eyes me.

“I’d hoped you see the devil you loved through clearer eyes, but I guess you never did and never will.”

I wait patiently, silently stalking him with just my eyes as he finishes off another glass. His eyes dart toward something near the couch, and his head tilts as he studies something I can’t see from this angle.

He looks away from whatever it is that no longer holds his interest, and carries his glass around the corner to the kitchen, which is near his master bedroom. Pushing the door open silently, I step out, putting my knife in its sheath on my hip.

As I near the couch, my eyes dart down, curious at what held his attention. And I close my eyes as I refrain from blowing out a frustrated breath. My flashlight is there. I put it down earlier when I was looking for any hidden weapons, and forgot to pick it back up.

Rookie mistake.

Opening my eyes back up, I clutch the handle of my knife and walk into the kitchen. But I screech to a halt when my gaze is suddenly locked on the end of a barrel.

“Boo,” the sheriff says, drawing my eyes to his as I slowly raise my hands, feigning compliance.

He looks over the pistol to stare down at me, the barrel just inches from my face.

“Any reason why the fed’s girlfriend is slinking around my house?” he drawls lazily, hiding that welling frustration he showed just moments ago when he didn’t know I was watching.

“Probably because she’s not just a fed’s girlfriend,” I quip, smiling bitterly at him.

He cocks his head, watching me.

“And who exactly are you?”

I smirk as I take a step forward, pressing that barrel right up against my temple with my hands still raised. His eyes widen fractionally, but he masks all other signs of surprise.

“I’m the girl you sent your son to kill. I’d hoped you see the devil you loved through clearer eyes, but I guess you never did and never will.”

Confusion only lights his eyes for the barest of moments before recognition slides over his face.

“No,” he says in a rasp whisper.

But then his eyes turn to ice, and the resonating sound of a dead click rattles around the room that is otherwise cloaked in silence. Fear replaces determination when I smile.

And he pulls the trigger again, and again, and again…all while I take a step back.

“Hope you don’t mind, Sheriff. I took the liberty of emptying all the bullets from every other gun in the house, sans your service weapon you left in the other room.”

He starts to rush by me, surprising me by not lunging for the helpless looking woman before him. I guess I gave him too much credit for being masculine and all that.

My knee slams into his stomach, halting his retreat, and he hits the ground, collapsing with a pained cry.

“I’ve always preferred knives,” I say as I pull mine out, sliding it under his throat as he goes stiff and still beneath the blade.

I crouch beside him, holding the knife there.

“How are you alive?” he asks almost too quietly.

I grin, waggling my eyebrows. “A lot of pain. A lot of healing. And a hell of a lot of tequila. But mostly, I’m here because of Jake. You remember him, right? Jacob Denver? The boy you overlooked as any sort of threat once you realized he’d been in love with my brother? Because what sort of weak man loves another man, right? No way would such an abomination be awesome enough to help a dead girl slaughter so many of your monsters.”

His lips part for a breath of surprise to escape, and the knife presses closer to his throat with the motion.

Casually, I pull out my phone with my free hand, dial Jake, and set it on the ground beside me after putting it on speaker.

“I take it you’re still working on phase five?” Jake asks as I stare at the sheriff’s face.

“He’s still letting it all sink in that all this is his fault. What’s the fun in simply killing him if he doesn’t go through at least a little mind torture of the reality he’s spun from all his lies and corruption?” I ask, grinning down as the sheriff’s eyes turn hard.

There’s the arrogant son of a bitch I know.