Author: S.T. Abby
Category: Young Adult
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/35437_10
Me? I’ve already walked through hell, so I’m desensitized to all else.
I decide to go with shocked. It’s the easiest to fake.
So, while I wait on someone to show up—and they will eventually when Logan realizes I’m unprotected—I practice my blank stare. I keep holding the knife, giving it a white-knuckle grip, certain a girl in shock would do just the same.
Yep.
Got this down.
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And I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Sheesh.
Finally, hear the telltale whoops and blares of sirens, brakes squealing on my driveway. Jeez. I’m glad I didn’t need to be saved. An entry that loud would have gotten me killed immediately, giving the fucknut bleeding all over my floor time to escape.
Jackasses.
I am curious when they burst through the doors, using my peripheral to see them training their guns on the air in front of them. How do they know he’s here?
I proceed with my blank stare act, waiting.
“Holy shit,” someone says, but I remain in shock, staring ahead.
How long do I have to do this?
My eyes are burning from how wide I’m holding them open. “Plemmons is in the living room,” a loud voice booms.
I don’t move my head, but I see him kneel as another man keeps a gun pointed on the Boogeyman.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
The voices continue chirping the same word from all around my house. I remain a statue.
“Dead,” the guy kneeling says, then grabs the radio hooked to his shoulder. “Dispatch, Plemmons is dead. The house is clear.”
He clicks the radio, speaking into it again, repeating his words.
“What the hell?” he asks.
Apparently that jammer does more than just disable cell phone signals.
“I don’t know. Mine isn’t working either. Neither is my phone. Don’t disturb the scene. This is a fed case. Clear the house until they get here. They’re already chewing our asses for taking thirty minutes longer than we were supposed to. How was I supposed to know the guy isn’t just overly paranoid? They had us knee deep in an unmarked graveyard, all hands available.”
“Miss?” the guy prompts, coming closer, not responding to the sulking douchebag whilst I pretend to be a sad little girl in shock.
He carefully touches my wrist, and I jerk.
“Shhh,” he soothes, prying the knife from my hand and handing it back to another guy who wraps it and puts it in an evidence bag. “You’re safe, Ms. Myers.”
His voice is so gentle, and I have to keep a straight face to keep from smiling at him in appreciation for his genuine concern.