Page 140 of Jack

A hug?

“I think Boo and Oaken are about to head in—you two better get upstairs.” Jack brushed past them outside.

The sun had started to set, the wind stirring the breeze, creaking the trees. The parking lot was jammed full of cars.

He stood there, his hands in his pockets.Oh, Harper, please don’t leave?—

A moan lifted—deep and pained—and the sound landed in his chest, stirred?—

He went to the edge of the porch and stilled.

Penelope lay in the snow, her face bloodied, her dress torn. “Penelope!” He scrambled down the steps, scooped her up. “Are you okay?” He started up the stairs, carrying her. “Where’s Harper?”

He pushed into the house. “Mom, I need help!” He burst into the kitchen as his mother rounded the corner.

She took a breath at the sight of the wounded woman. “Not near the food. C’mon.” She directed him to the nearby bathroom, just off the entry.

He set Penelope down, and his mother had already wetted a towel. She put it to Penelope’s nose, still gushing blood.

Penelope pinched her nose, her voice stunted. “Harper and I were talking when suddenly he just showed up. Just walked up the steps and—I was so shocked I hugged him.” Her breath caught. “I hugged him. Wow, I’m such an idiot. He completely played us and . . .” She looked up at Jack. “This is a lot bigger than I thought.”

“Where. Is.Harper?”

“He said he needed to talk, and I started walking toward the car and then thought,What am I doing? I’m at a wedding.So I told him no, and that’s when he tried to grab me. Harper got in the middle, and then he hit me—oh, I think my nose is broken?—”

“Penelope!”

“I don’t know! I heard Harper shouting. And then she came at us, swinging something—a shovel. Yeah, she hit him with a shovel.”

Jack grabbed the frame of the door.

“I think maybe she hit him again—I don’t know. I remember her running.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know?—”

“Why didn’t she go back to the house?”

“I don’t know!” Her eyes filled. “She ran. And he ran after her.”

Her words had the power to buckle his knees.

“Did he catch her?” His voice emerged on a whisper.

“I don’t know—I didn’t hear anyone drive away.” She met his eyes then. “No. I don’t remember them driving away.”

“Who, Penelope? Who did this?”

Penelope lowered the towel. “Kyle Brunley.”

He stilled. “What? He’s dead.”

She shook her head. “Not so dead.”

“Then who was the dead body at the Motor Lodge?” He got up.

“I don’t know.”