THE GROUND BENEATH OUR SECRETS

The freezing mud in the ditch sucked at our sneakers, threatening to pull us down with every frantic stride.

Behind us, the baying of Arthur’s two blue-tick coonhounds shattered the stillness of the valley. The sound was high, sharp, and hunting-mad.

“They let the hounds off their chains!” Clara wept, stumbling through the frozen blackberry vines that tore at our jeans.

“Keep moving toward the willows!” I urged, clutching the probate papers inside my jacket with one arm while keeping the other wrapped securely around my abdomen. Every step sent a jolt of pain through my lower back, but the adrenaline surging through my veins masked the worst of it.

Fifty yards ahead, the dim red tail lights of Hank’s truck flashed twice in the mist.

Hank was standing outside the driver's door, the iron crowbar resting in the crook of his arm. As soon as he saw our shadows break through the brush, he vaulted into the cab and kicked the passenger door wide open.

“Get in! Get in!” he roared over the rumble of the engine.

Clara scrambled in first, tumbling onto the floorboards, and pulled me in behind her. Before I could even pull my legs all the way into the cab, Hank dumped the clutch. The rear tires spun violently in the slick grass, spraying clumps of wet sod twenty feet into the air, before catching traction on the gravel access road.

A shotgun blast ripped through the night air.

Crack!

Buckshot peppered the heavy steel tailgate of the truck with the sound of hail on a tin roof. Through the dirty rear window, I saw Arthur standing near the machine shed, lowering the smoking barrel of his twelve-gauge shotgun while Evelyn stood right behind him, holding a high-powered spotlight that illuminated our license plate.

“He shot at us,” Clara sobbed, burying her face against the vinyl bench seat. “Our own father just shot at us!”

“He wasn't shooting to kill,” Hank said between gritted teeth, wrestling the steering wheel as the truck slid sideways around a muddy bend onto the river road. “He was shooting to blow the rear tires. He knows once we hit the state highway, he can't touch us.”

“Where are we going, Hank?” I asked, trying to steady my breathing as I watched the dark trees blur past the window. “We can't go to your shop. They know you’re helping us now.”

“We’re not going to my shop,” Hank replied, his eyes fixed on the narrow, winding ribbon of asphalt ahead. “We’re going to the county seat. To Sheriff Miller.”

I turned to him in surprise. “Sheriff Miller? Hank, he’s your father’s first cousin! He goes fishing with Arthur every single spring!”

“He goes fishing with Arthur,” Hank corrected, “because they grew up on the same creek. But Tom Miller spent twenty-four years in the Marine Corps before he ever wore that badge. He hates a thief, and he despises a liar. More importantly, Tom’s wife was your mother’s best friend before she passed.”

Hank glanced down at the manila envelope resting on my lap.

“Show him those probate documents, Elena. Show him that cassette tape with Mark’s confession. And show him the dirt still caked behind your fingernails from where they threw you in that ditch. Blood runs thick in this county, but Tom Miller doesn't protect monsters.”

As if on cue, the high-beam headlights of Arthur’s heavy diesel flatbed appeared in the rearview mirror, roaring over the crest of the hill behind us. Arthur was pushing the heavy truck to its absolute limit, the massive steel brush guard on his front bumper gaining on us with terrifying speed.

“He’s not letting us reach the county line,” Clara cried, looking out the back.

The road narrowed as it approached the old iron-truss bridge that spanned the swollen, muddy waters of the Blackwood River. The wooden deck of the bridge was slick with river mist and early autumn frost.

“Hold on to something!” Hank shouted, his knuckles turning white as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Arthur’s truck slammed into our rear bumper with a deafening screech of crumpled steel. The impact threw Clara and me forward against the dashboard. The truck fishtailed violently, the tires screeching against the wet timber planks of the bridge deck.

To our left, the rusty iron railings of the bridge groaned under the sideways pressure of the truck’s fender. Fifty feet below, the black, churning river awaited anything that broke through the barrier.

Arthur pulled back, lining up the front of his heavy flatbed for a second, decisive ram that would shove us clean off the road and into the dark water.

Through his windshield, illuminated by our backup lights, I could see his face—twisted, desperate, and completely consumed by the madness of a man who knew his world was collapsing.

Beside him in the passenger seat sat Evelyn.