Chapters (39)
- NEVER DIE ALONE
- Books by Lisa Jackson
- Title Page
- Table of Contents
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- EPILOGUE
- Teaser chapter
- Copyright Page
You couldn’t be too careful, he decided as he cut the engine. There were always hunters and poachers in these woods, nosy types who might catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. Then there were the squatters, people who came in and made old shacks and cabins their homes until they were rousted out. All the warning signs in the world wouldn’t keep the squatters at bay. He’d posted NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT, and even BEWARE OF DOG signs all along the perimeter of this scrap of land, but did everyone abide by them? No fuckin’ way. There was always someone willing to break the damned rules.
And that was the problem.
No order.
“Fuckers,” he growled under his breath. Hopefully now, with the dog, people would stay away.
In life, there were rules.
You had to play by them, he thought as he reached into the glove box and grabbed his flashlight.
That’s why he couldn’t kill that whimpering, whiny Chloe first.
Angry, he climbed out of the cab, kicked at a clod of dirt, took two steps toward the building, then stopped. He returned to his vehicle, reached inside, and yanked the keys from the van’s ignition. That’s where he’d made his mistake yesterday. Well, one of his mistakes. Leaving the keys in the damned van. Yesterday’s plan had turned into a major clusterfuck of errors.
Today would be different. He slid the automotive keys into a front pocket of his jeans, then whistled loudly just as he opened the gate to the dog run and spied Red bounding from his shed. Smiling, he stopped to pet the bloodhound with his notched ear, the result of a tussle with a raccoon or worse, then followed the dog back inside. “Ya hungry?” He took down a plastic tub of dog food, measured out two cups, and checked to see that the water was fresh. It wasn’t, so he pumped a bucket from the long sink on the back porch, then returned to fill several bowls, not that the dog couldn’t make his way down to the river if he really had to.
“There ya go,” he said, once Red had buried his nose into the dry food. A stray, Red had landed here and stayed.
It had worked out.