—
The cabin isfilling with smoke, and it’s getting harder to breathe. I start coughing and can’t stop. I’m choking on the fumes, particles of smoke lodging in my throat. Using the fireplace tools, I manage to loosen the rope enough to free my hands. Dropping down to all fours, I crawl for the front door.
My eyes sting, tearing up so much I can’t see. How could I have been so naïve? How could I not see what was in front of me for ten years?
I think of Naomi and rage shudders through me. I won’t let it end this way. I won’t let Cecily get away with this.
When I try the front door, it’s locked. Behind me the smoke is piling higher on the ceiling, a gray mass of ash and soot. An angry gust of heat rushes my face, searing my skin. A loudbangcomes from somewhere in the house and the sound of glass shattering. My heart races as I look for another exit.
Pulling my shirt over my mouth, I crawl toward the bedrooms. Maybe I can escape out a window. The heat burns my back, sweat trickling down every inch of my face, my neck.
But when I reach the bedroom, the window is stuck. Bolted down. And as much as I struggle to yank it open, it won’t budge.
Coughing, eyes stinging, I run back into the living room and try not to inhale as I seize the iron poker and rush back to the bedroom.
With all my strength I hurl it again and again at the glass until it breaks. Once I’ve cleared out the broken glass, I squeeze my body through the opening, cringing as the jagged glass cuts into my sides, before falling into the bushes below.
—
It takes amoment to clear my lungs and catch my breath, and when I look down, my stomach is bleeding, badly, pain radiating up my sides and down my legs. Blood rushes down my waist where the glass has cut into my skin.
And yet I am relieved to be out here, alive, sucking in lungfuls of clean air, rather than inside that burning cabin.
The roof has caught fire and plumes of black smoke fill the air.
Out here, though, it’s freezing. The rain is coming down harder now, and I don’t see any sign of Cecily.
When I start walking, my ankle gives way and I cry out in pain. I must have sprained it when I jumped from the window. My choices don’t look great: the road, winding and narrow, or the forest itself, dark and ominous. The closest cabin is on the other side of the mountain, but it’s the best chance I have at getting help. I’m running out of time.
On the off chance someone might be driving this way—I choose the road.
—
Thirty minutes later,I’m limping down the center of the empty road through the pouring rain. I’m colder than I’ve ever been, like the cold has penetrated my bones, but grateful to be surrounded by darkness. Safe. Hidden. From her. I’m shivering violently when a light flashes in the distance, and hope rises in my chest. Headlights! A car bending around the curve. Could someone have seen the smoke? Called for help?
It’s hard to see in all this rain. But I make out the shape of someone behind the wheel.
I wave my hands overhead and yell out. But instead of pulling up next to me, the car crawls slowly forward before stopping in front of me. I take a step back. It’s an old gray van. The kind electricians or plumbers drive. Or…people with worse intentions. Suddenly, my hope vanishes, replaced by panic.
Behind me, a door slams shut. Quick footsteps. I turn, bracing myself, but I can’t see a thing. I’m blinded by a second pair of bright headlights, cutting directly into my eyes. But through the painful glare, I can make out someone approaching, a dark shape. Heart beating faster, I raise my arm to shield my eyes.
It’s too late.
A loud thud, followed by a sharp pain on the side of my temple. And everything retreats into darkness.
—
I wake toa strange scraping sound—a pain on the back of my skull—and it takes a moment to realize I’m moving, sliding, someone dragging me by my legs, small rocks in the dirt scraping the back of my head and neck. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, and I look up at the pine trees overhead, shivering in the wind.Run.My brain is sayingrun.But my muscles refuse to cooperate. With a rush of movement, I’m sliding down, down some muddy embankment, mind going in and out of consciousness.
She’s not going to stop until she kills me.It’s a sobering thought and sends a chill right through me.This is where Lila died. This is where they buried her.I wonder if this was the last thing my sister saw before she died too, a blur of feathery pines rushing past overhead, the rain needling her eyes.
Cecily pauses and looks down at me, and I squeeze my eyes shut once again, pretend I’m still passed out. She’s breathing hard, probably from dragging me all this way.
“How’s it going?” Cecily asks. “Is it ready?”Who is she talking to?
A familiar voice answers. “Good, almost done.” It’s Marta.Marta.And I hear sounds of metal on dirt, digging. And a harrowing realization: she’s digging my grave.
I feel the betrayal like a bitterness on my tongue, a knife in my side. How could she do this? Hadn’t Marta been the one to give the video to Naomi? Wasn’t she trying to help? I knew Marta had worked for the St. Clairs when Cecily was a kid. Her family had gotten Marta the job at Sterling Club. Was she sponsored by the St. Clairs, employed by the St. Clairs, loyal until the very end?
