"No, you're not." I'm waking up, thanks to the adrenaline coursing through my body.
His amused smile flattens into a grim line. "In fact, maybe you killed them yourself. You're capable of it. You have so much anger stored up."
Considering the ruthless way they were killed, I know that's impossible. Unless there's a side you've been hiding from yourself, an insidious voice whispers.
If this is some kind of dream, I could easily escape him. I could bend his actions to my will.
I push back and jump to my feet, and he follows suit, his dark eyes following my every move. "You want to run?" His voice is slow and thick. "This is my house, remember?"
The roar that comes out of my mouth sounds inhuman. "No. You're in my house. My head." I take off running for the hallway. He launches forward, clawing at my bare foot, but I kick him hard and scramble forward.
Where should I run? If this is a dream, maybe I can ford the creek now. There may have never even been a storm in the first place.
I pound down the steps with Micah so close behind, I can hear his heavy breathing. After jumping the last two stairs, I bolt out the back door. The motion light clicks on, illuminating the wet driveway and Quincy's car, still sitting where it was parked.
This is a dream. I can cross that creek, even if it looks flooded. Without a backward glance, I race toward the rushing water that's covered the bridge. Some survival instinct sets off alarm bells in my head, screaming that I'd be an idiot to swim across.
But tonight, I'm doing what I want. I'm writing this story now.
Certain that my feet will slip and I'll get swept away if I try to run across the bridge, I take a deep breath and plunge into the creek itself. Muddy water flows over my head, but I hold my breath and kick against the swirling current that wants to suck me under. The creek is so loud, there's no way to tell if Micah has jumped in behind me.
The porch light clicks off, leaving me swimming in darkness, but I kick harder, dragging my arms around floating sticks and debris as I try to propel myself toward the opposite bank. It feels like it's a hundred miles away, given how little progress I seem to be making against the water's force.
It would be easier to stop fighting the current. Maybe it would sweep me off to someplace safe. But from my research, I know that any number of dangerous things could be floating downstream alongside me. From logs to human waste to downed power lines, it's unwise to stay in flood waters for long.
Suddenly, my injured foot strikes some kind of muddy underwater ledge. Could I be nearing the opposite bank? I kick myself up and forward, and my palm lands on a flat, leafy surface that must be the opposite bank. The current makes it impossible for me to plant my feet, but I grasp wildly at the leaf-strewn ground, hoping for a handhold.
My arm seems to be losing all its strength when my fingers finally snag on a protruding tree root. I curl both hands around it and slowly drag myself up to ground level, which is basically even with the crest of the creek. I force myself to move a safe distance from the creek, then collapse into a heap. Even if Micah has, by some miracle, managed to follow my treacherous route to safety, he can't possibly see where I've wound up, since the moon is now covered by clouds.
I slowly raise my head and peer in front of me, trying to get a feel for where I am in relation to Henry's house. But there are no lights in sight.
I should've guessed that he wouldn't leave his house lit all night, unless, by some miracle, he's kept an outdoor light on. If so, I can't see it. Plus, the creek must have dragged me quite a way downstream.
Desperate to get to the one person I know I can trust, I drag myself to my feet. Ignoring the pang in my injured heel, which is now exposed since the creek peeled off the bandage, I shuffle away from the flood waters.
Walking in what I hope is a fairly straight line, I feel my way between tree trunks. There's no sound of movement behind me. Maybe I've managed to shake Micah...or maybe my dream is ending.
I push myself to go on. Now that my adrenaline has crashed, the melatonin has taken hold again. My steps are sluggish, and so is my mind. Is there any break in this infernal woods? Surely it must give way to an opening soon.
As if hearkening to my wishes, the trees seem to part. I glance around, catching sight of a dim pinprick of light maybe a quarter of a mile to my left. If that's Henry's place, I was swept further downstream than I'd guessed.
I attempt to run toward it, but can't stop tripping on the low rises and falls of the open ground. Surely the driveway is around here somewhere.
I'm so tired of it all—this dream, or this horrible nightmare, as the case may be. Are Mariah and Quincy really dead? Is Micah actually here, instead of in Hawaii? Am I even awake right now?
One of Emily's favorite movies is Inception, but its core concept terrifies me. It's not hard to imagine being trapped in a place of my own design—after all, haven't I escaped into my mind all these years, each time life overwhelmed me? Haven't I created my own safe constructs, my own stories to live through vicariously? I've bestowed all the social graces and the adventurous spirit I lack on my fictional heroine.
I'm about to fall onto the soft, wet grass when I hear him call out. The heavy air has turned foggy, so it's impossible to tell which direction his muffled voice is coming from.
"Alexandra. You have to stop running. You can't lose me."
I dig deep and press toward the light. A silver band of daylight peeks from behind the misty mountains. How long did I sleep? Can it nearly be dawn?
I need to make it to Henry's porch. If I pound on the door, he'll be sure to come running. I might wake his mother, but I'm desperate at this point. I can't keep going.
My steps falter and I can sense Micah gaining ground. A dim light on an outdoor building guides me toward the porch. Just as I clamber up the first step, Micah grabs my leg and drags me, face-down, to the cold ground.
There's nothing for it. I angle my head toward the house and scream.
TWENTY-SIX
My cheek grinds against the mud as Micah gives me a firm yank backward. He straddles my back, grabbing a fistful of hair. "Keep quiet," he breathes into my ear.
Although he's not heavy, his weight keeps me pinned down. I let out a groan, but still myself beneath him. What kind of a plan could he possibly have?
And where is Henry? Not one light has come on in the house. Fear roils in my stomach as I realize Tilly's oxygen machine is so loud, it might've drowned out my cry.
Are these my final moments? Given the brutal way he killed both Mariah and Quincy, Micah doesn't need his gun to kill me. Beating people to death isn't a stretch for this psychopath.
I struggle against him, then give voice to one final shout. He quickly shoves my face into the wet grass, cutting me off.
He leans in, and Renard's scent floats around me. "You need to give it up, since it's all over. I've told you far too much. I thought you understood my motivations, but it turns out you're a coward, just like Jordan. I—"
His head topples down next to my face, even as his fingers slip from my hair. The minute his closed eyes line up with my own gaze, I shove my feet and hands into the ground, rolling him off me as I twist around.
Henry stands behind me, a shovel gripped in his hands.
"What was he doing on you?" he asks. "What is he even doing in town?"
