I glance down at Fielding’s outstretched body; he’s lying with his arm pinned behind his back. Shit. That doesn’t look comfortable. Or natural. I have no idea how long those guys were beating on him before I got out here. What if he’s really hurt and needs medical attention? I’m afraid to move him and hurt him further, but I need to get him out of here—fast.

Travis answers on the third ring.

“What the fuck was that, Maddie?”

Oh. So he did see what happened. And he decided to—what? Stay out of it and let me face off with at least ten guys by myself? Charming.

“Are you still here? I could really use some help.”

He scoffs into the phone. “That was fucking reckless, Maddie. I heard what Adley said to you. I’m sorry, but I’m not getting mixed up with him.”

Talk about a fair-weather fucker. I end the call without saying goodbye.

I focus on my call list again, eyes landing on the name I probably should have started with. He’s going to lose his freaking mind. But at least he’ll help me.

The phone rings once, then twice, then a third time. It kicks over to voicemail after the fourth ring, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to chuck my phone across the yard.

I call him again, because maybe he just didn’t get to his phone in time.

I wait.

Fielding groans.

Panic bubbles up inside me as the call goes to voicemail again.

Think, Maddie. Think!

Dempsey hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts over the last few days. He’s ignoring me.

“Field—I’m gonna look through your pockets and find your phone, ’kay?” I experience a surge of déjà vu the moment I feel his device in his back left pocket—right where his brother keeps his.

I pull out the phone and swipe up, then scowl when the facial recognition doesn’t unlock.

Shit.

“Fielding. Can you hear me? Listen, I need you to open your eyes for me.”

I crawl toward his head, gently lifting his skull and laying it in my lap. “Field, come on. Open your eyes for one second…”

I position the device in front of his face and swipe up again. The phone vibrates its rejection. I try one more time. That one fails, too, because of course it does. Not only are his eyes closed, but one is completely swollen shut. I’m not sure facial recognition would work even if he could cooperate.

The phone stops trying to open with Face ID and asks me for a passcode instead.

Four numbers. Six attempts. There’s no way this’ll work, but I punch in Dempsey’s passcode just to rule it out.

Shit. Yes! These goofballs. Why would they have matching lock codes?