Deserves to Die Read Free

electronic doors. They parted and there, on the other side, waiting patiently, probably understanding how conflicted she was, stood Dylan O’Keefe, the man who had been in and out of her life for years and whom she loved.
    “How is he?” O’Keefe asked, knowing full well how Alvarez felt about her boss. His eyes, a penetrating gray, were filled with concern.
    “Not good.” She flung herself into his arms as tears burned the back of her eyelids. “Not good.”
    Strong arms held her close. “Shh. He’ll be fine,” O’Keefe assured her and she took comfort in his lies. “He’s strong. It takes more than a bullet or two to knock that cowboy down.”
    Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished to high heaven that she could believe him. And she had to. Despite all of her efforts to bring his assailant to justice, Dan Grayson still had to fight this battle on his own. She’d done all she could, even going off the rails and becoming a bit of a rogue cop—totally out of character for her—to arrest the man responsible for Grayson’s injuries. But she couldn’t help him now. He was fighting for his life and it was all down to the strength of his body and his will to live.
    Sniffing, forcing back her own dread, she finally took a step back. “You’re right. He is strong.”
    “Ready?”
    She nodded and O’Keefe pressed the elevator call button. When a soft ding announced the car had arrived and the elevator’s doors whispered open, they stepped inside, and once more, Alvarez silently prayed for Dan Grayson’s life.
     
     
    When Jessica woke up, she was disoriented, her bladder stretched to the breaking point, the darkness in the cabin complete. She found her phone in her pocket and first checked the time. Nearly five AM . She’d slept almost around the clock and had a crick in her neck to prove it.
    But she’d survived.
    At least one more night.
    A quick glance through the window showed her that her footsteps were still visible, but quickly disappearing with the night’s snowfall, as were the Chevy’s tire tracks.
    Good, though it really didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay hidden away. She had to go out today and would in the days after, as she needed to secure a job and fast. The cash she’d taken with her was running out and though her expenses were little, her dollars could only be stretched so far.
    She relieved herself in the barely functioning toilet, then using her flashlight, followed its beam to the back porch where she’d seen a stack of wood the night before.
    The split fir had been in its resting spot for years, judging by the nests of spiders within and the fact that it was dry as a bone. It would ignite easily. A small axe had been left, its blade stuck in a huge round of wood that had obviously been used as a chopping block. She carried in several large chunks and stacked them in the grate, checked the flue, opened the damper, then went back outside and, with her flashlight balanced on the porch rail, split some kindling.
    Thank you, Grandpa, for showing me how to do this, she thought, conjuring up the old man with his bald, speckled pate, rimless glasses, and slight paunch. He’d been the one who had taken her hunting and camping, molding what he’d considered a pampered princess into a self-sufficient woman.
    “Ya never can tell when you’ll need to know how to shoot, or build a camp, or make a fire, Missy, so you’d best learn now,” he’d told her. Smelling of chewing tobacco and a hint of Jack Daniels, he’d set about teaching her.
    Of course he was long gone, but his memory and advice lingered.
    She set up one piece of fir, raised the axe, and brought it down swiftly. A bit of kindling split off. She repeated the process again and again until she’d made short work of three fir chunks and, despite the freezing temperatures and her fogging breath, was sweating profusely.
    Once back in the cabin, she used her lighter and soon a fire was burning in the grate, smoke drawing through the