“s**t,” Fisher says and barrels down the basement steps.
I follow him to find Presley at the bottom of the steps, her comforter over her face.
“What the hell?” I run down the stairs, my heart in my throat.
“I was just curious why the door was open and the light was on.” He squats to check on her.
“Presley?” I say, taking all the sheets off her to see if she’s conscious.
“I’m fine. Just a sore ass,” she says, but her hand is on her head.
Fisher puts all her stuff in her laundry basket, and I help her to her feet.
“Go slow,” I say.
“My phone.” She frantically looks around.
There’s a glow coming from the bottom of the stairs and Fisher goes over and picks it up, clearing the screen. He tosses it in the laundry basket. “Good job having 911 on your phone, but next time, press the green
