That’s when he saw movement from a basement window of a white and blue traditional with a yellow door, and without thinking, he drifted away from the group. He took one furtive look around at the deserted construction site and didn’t think twice before he summoned his wings, hurling them over his shoulders and gliding through the air to the basement window so he wouldn’t make any noise with his boots in the snow.
There it was again, the movement was slight, and it was rapid, but he saw it. Who else could be here at this time of night? Unless some rogue kids were partying, it had to be George and whoever had nabbed her.
The question was, who had nabbed her?
But damned if he could see inside the window. It was covered in dirt and grime from the construction debris and a drift of snow, leaving only outlines of shadows and muffled voices.
He needed to get inside somehow. He couldn’t simply appear out of nowhere and take the chance whoever had George might startle easily and hurt her. So Dex decided to float up the steps of the house, pressing his ear to the door, wondering if it was locked—and that’s when he heard her.
George. It was definitely her. She was inside, yelling for all she was worth. He’d know her lilting tone anywhere. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but she was in there, leaving his heart pumping and his chest unbearable tight.
Which left him with two choices. Find the women and Darnell and risk the chance George could end up without a soul in the time he spent locating them or go it alone.
Where had everyone gone anyway? His eyes took a quick scan of the property and the neighborhood, covered with enormous mounds of dirt and snow and didn’t see anyone.
But he didn’t have time to wait. George’s voice was rising with each muffled word she spoke. He didn’t need to hear the actual words to know her tone was laced with panic.
Trying the door handle with no luck, he decided to peek in the windows and see if there was a room he could pop into where he could sneak up on them. Cupping his hands, Dex looked into the tall window on the right of the porch and decided it looked like as good a place as any.
Sending his wings away, he closed his eyes and focused on the interior of the room and a mere blip later, found himself standing in a dining room, where George’s voice grew stronger.
Clenching his fists, Dex prepared for a battle—no way was this asshole going to hurt the woman he loved.
Not on his watch.
George’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits, her rage, her anguish, her fear rising to bounds she didn’t know were possible. “So you want to get into Heaven so you can do what? Kill her? You’re a little late to that party, huh, Dad? She’s kinda already dead.”
“Shut up, you smartass little shit!” he roared, lurching forward, which was not part of the plan. She needed to get behind him if she was going to make a break for it.
Holding up her hands, she chuckled, wondering what had come over her. She was laughing in his face, taunting him, begging him to come at her, knowing full well he could end her.
But she felt freer than she had in a million years.
Tipping her head back, she laughed outright. Loud and with abandon. “Oh, chill, Dad. I don’t get why you get so freaked out. It’s what gave you that heart attack, isn’t it? You know, the one that killed you? The one that landed you right where you were supposed to be. Rotting in Hell!”
He paced in front of her, huffing like a bull in heat, and as she got a really good view of the basement from the small overhead bulb, George decided to make a break for it and she saw just the distraction she needed, gleaming and shiny on someone’s workbench.
“Call those wings up, Georgina! Call them now, or I swear to Christ, I’ll kill you!” Houston bellowed, angry and loud. Just like the old days.
Swerving to the right of him, she pointed. “Look, Dad!” she sang, using the most cheerful tone she could muster. “It’s a hammer.” He turned around, giving her the opportunity to skitter past him and grab the hammer on the makeshift bench. “Do you remember this?”
George took some sort of weird satisfaction that she’d been able to stop him in his tracks as he cocked his head. “What the hell are you spouting off about, Georgina?” he growled, his voice sinister.
George clenched the handle and held it up, the black rubber casing cool against her hand, her heart crashing in her ears. “This, Dad. This hammer. Remember? It’s exactly like the one you used to smash Mom’s fingers when she forgot to buy your steak. See?” she asked pleasantly—just before she lobbed it at his head.
And as Houston Maverick took the spiky end of the hammer to his forehead, George thought something completely ridiculous.
He had been good for something. He’d taught her how to throw a baseball. His good-for-nothing daughter wasn’t so good-for-nothing after all.
As Houston screamed, spinning around in a circle, holding his hands to his forehead, George made a break for it, running up the stairs, taking them three at a time until she reached the top and grabbed the handle of the door, pushing it open with a grunt and toppling into a room with sheetrock and planks of wood in piles.
A house? She was in someone’s house? The scent of stain and paint permeated her nose. In an instant, her brain made the connection. She was in a house under construction.
But George didn’t even look at where she was or try to find a point of reference, she began to run, looking to
