Randy turned away with a shout that should have been loud enough to wake the entire house, but actually came out as a choked, intelligible slur of vowels. The phone—he needed the phone. Vaughn…he needed…
He didn’t get to make a single step toward the kitchen. A shriek from the porch shivered up his spine. His blood became like ice.
He turned back to the window. The voice was Lyle’s. And Lyle was in trouble. Not just a little, I’ve-come-to-f**k-with-you trouble, either, but my-body-is-breaking kind of trouble.
Drugs? Gangs? Did they even have gangs out there? Was that why Lyle had gone from a seemingly sweet young dude into a borderline crazy little fucker out of the blue? What had they done to him? What had he done to himself?
The pain in Randy’s knee was forgotten. Calling Vaughn for
