The Best of Me(49)

The ground was dry, pine straw crackling underfoot. As he hopped over a fallen tree, he spotted the dark-haired man pushing through the branches, ducking behind a tree, his windbreaker flapping behind him.

Dawson broke into a flat-out run.



Ted had finally inched his way forward to the woodpile, which sat at the edge of the clearing. The house loomed directly behind it. From his vantage point, he could peer into the garage. The light was still on and Ted watched for almost a minute, looking for signs of movement. Dawson had been in there working on the car, he was almost sure of it. But he wasn’t there now, or anywhere out front.

He was either in the house or in the back. Ted ducked down, moving into the cover of the forest before circling around to the rear of the house. Not there, either. Retracing his steps, he made his way back to the woodpile. Still no sign of Dawson in the garage. Which meant he had to be in the house. Probably to get a drink, or maybe take a leak. Either way, he’d be out soon enough.

He settled in to wait.



Dawson saw the man a third time, this time closer to the road. He sprinted after him, the branches and bushes slapping at him, but couldn’t seem to close the distance. Panting, he gradually began to slow before coming to a stop at the edge of the road.

The man was gone. If, of course, he’d ever been in the woods at all, and Dawson suddenly wasn’t so sure about that. The prickling sensation of being watched had dissipated, as had the icy fear; all he was left with was a feeling of being hot and tired, with a sense of frustration and foolishness mixed in.

Tuck used to see Clara, and now Dawson was seeing a dark-haired man wearing a windbreaker in the early summer heat. Had Tuck been as crazy as he was? He stood still, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He was sure the man was following him, but if so, who was he? And what did the man want with him?

He didn’t know, but the more he tried to focus on what he’d actually seen, the more it began to slip away. Like dreams only minutes after waking, it faded, until he was no longer sure of anything.

He shook his head, glad he was nearly finished with the Stingray. He wanted to return to the bed-and-breakfast to take a shower and lie down and think about things. The dark-haired man, Amanda… ever since the accident on the rig, his life had been in upheaval. He looked in the direction he’d come, deciding there was no point in traipsing back through the woods. It would be easier to follow the road and just hike up the drive. Stepping onto the macadam, he started walking, only to notice an old truck parked off the road behind a clump of bushes.

He wondered what it was doing out here; there was nothing to be found in this part of the woods except for Tuck’s place. The tires weren’t flat, and though he supposed the truck could have broken down, whoever it was probably would have come up the drive in search of help. Stepping into the underbrush, Dawson noticed that the truck was locked; he reached over and placed his hand on its hood. Warm, but not hot. Probably been there for an hour or two.

Nor did it make sense that it was tucked away, parked behind the bushes. If it needed a tow, it would have been better to keep it near the side of the road. It almost seemed that the driver didn’t want anyone to notice the truck at all.

Like someone meant to keep it hidden?

With that, everything began to fall into place, beginning with the sighting of Abee that morning. This wasn’t Abee’s truck—the one he’d run past that morning—but that didn’t mean anything. Carefully, Dawson traced a path around the far side of the truck, stopping when he noticed some branches twisted to the side.

The entry point.

Someone had come this way, heading toward the house.



Tired of waiting, Ted pulled out a chunk of marlstone, thinking that if he broke a window while Dawson was inside, Dawson might just decide to stay holed up. But a noise was different. When something loud cracked against the side of the house, you went outside to check what happened. He’d probably walk right past the woodpile, just a few feet away. Impossible to miss.

Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the first chunks of marlstone. Cautiously, he peeked over the woodpile, seeing no one in the windows. Then, rising quickly, he threw the piece as hard as he could and was already ducking back down as it shattered against the house, the sound loud and sharp.

Behind him, the flock of starlings broke noisily from the trees.



Dawson heard a muted pop, and a cloud of starlings swarmed above him before quickly settling again. The noise hadn’t been gunfire; it was something else. He slowed his approach, moving silently toward Tuck’s house.

Someone was there. He was sure of it. His kin, no doubt.