She shrugged and picked at a nail. “At the time it did. It made me feel like I was no longer a victim when I took the power back.”
“I can’t remember faces,” I whispered.
She nodded slowly, like she understood. “The darkest moments of your life can’t stay buried forever. Darkness always rises, and when it does, I will help you find him.” There was a promise in her tone, and an anger.
The kettle reached boil and switched off. She straightened and began to make me a coffee. She glanced over her shoulder, a wry smile on her lips. “That’s if Karson doesn’t work out who he is and skins him alive first.”
Karson would be ropable when he found out she helped me leave. He wouldn’t hurt her, but she’d risked his wrath to help me.
I rubbed my sweaty, shaking palms down my jeans. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You will be safe here. Call me when you are ready to leave.” She handed me the cup, and I took it gratefully, cradling it between my hands.
She collected her keys off the bench. “That’s if I’m alive to call.”
Monique left, and I sagged to the side, curled into a ball, and sobbed. All those fractured moments shattered through me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force them back down.
Darkness always rises.
Somewhere deep down, I could hear it all screaming to be let free. But I could feel another voice, a warning.
Some things are meant to stay buried.
Chapter 48
Blood On My Hands
Run.My mother’s voice in my ear.
I jerked awake. I swear I could feel her breath still tingling on my ear. My heart clenched. “Mom,” I breathed.
Weak moonlight fluttered through the curtains. I stared into the dark, expecting to see my mother, but there was nothing other than the shady outline of the room.
I rolled my legs to the floor, clutching my face in my hands. Was it real? Did she tell me to run because of the smoke or the man? She had stared at the man’s legs and was terrified. Was he someone she had put away hellbent on revenge? He might be out there, walking around, enjoying life, after he ripped my mother from her life. I should call my father and tell him what I remember. If she was murdered, he’d want to hunt her killer down. I stared at the phone on the coffee table. But what if it was all just a vivid dream and not some long-lost memory? What if she told me to run because of the smoke and the man came to help?
What if my father hung up on me? After all, the last words he said to me were, “Get the fuck out!”
For long moments, the thoughts circled in my head.
I picked up my phone. It was a burner and couldn’t be tracked. But I knew his number off by heart. One of the benefits of a photographic memory.
The phone rang, clattering my nerves. What if he?—
“Clemet speaking.” His voice gruff, deep, impatient. I could hear the television in the background. The football was on; I probably interrupted him watching the Cowboys.
“Dad?” I rasped over the hot coal in my neck. “It’s me.”
“Amy?” he said, softer now. Okay, okay he didn’t sound pissed. Relief eased the pressure in my chest. “Where are you?”
“Portland.”
“Are you alright? What the fuck are you doing in Portland? I thought you were in Church Heights. Are you safe?”
He knew where I moved to. Typical detective. He probably had my old phone traced. If he had bothered, it meant he cared. Emotion swelled in my throat. I didn’t realize how much I wanted him to care. Needed him to.
I took a moment to respond. “I’m fine, I …” I should tell him, but the words refused to fall out, refused to break the moment where he seemed … happy to hear from me. “How are you?”
“I’m alright, girl.” There was a long, awkward pause.
