Page 111 of Liars and Liaisons

Before leaving the room, I stop in front of the door and listen for any signs of the living. The house groans, the foundation settling. I move farther into the belly of the beast, sliding my feet into the hall, my back against the wall. The gun is heavy in my palm as my fingers curl around it, and my back is taut, my body primed to spring into action.

As long as Violet is alive, I don’t give a shit about anything else. I’ll do whatever is necessary to get her out of here and try not to think about the fact that it’s my fault she stayed in the first place.

My fault she was brought to this world.

If I’d known my father was involved in Nathaniel’s idiotic plans, I’d have dragged her to North Carolina with me. Wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.

I should’ve just killed them both after they buried Sydney.

Not that any of that matters now.

A single gunshot rings out through the estate, and my body immediately goes in search of the noise. Down past the stairs, through another narrow hall. I pause at the east wing, noting the door is wide open.

It’s also cold as shit.

Liquid soaks the hall floor, some footprints and some just puddles. Swallowing over the fire raging in my chest, I follow the short path, creeping into the staff kitchen. I keep my gun in front of me, just in case.

The smell is abysmal. Hot and metallic, like lambs after a slaughter.

My hand slips as I reach out to turn on the lights, that same liquid smeared across the switch.

I’m not fully prepared for the scene that comes into view.

Blood. Dark red and still a little warm.

It’severywhere.On the cabinets, pooled on the floor, spilled across the island countertop.

The only place it’s practically missing from is the headless corpse in the corner.

My heart plummets, a wave of nausea nearly forcing me to double over. I grit my teeth, steeling myself against it as familiarity hits me.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, beating my fist on the countertop. My next words are a whisper, rising to the sky above and the house around me. Meant for Micah if she’s still somehow lingering. “I am so fucking sorry.”

The only solace I’m allowed before I leave to go back to the main house is that she’s with her sister now. If there’s anything out there after this life, I’m certain they’re exploring it together.

As I make my way through the halls, past my study and the closed doors there, I pass the one to the southern wing, busted completely off its hinges.

A chill sweeps over me, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps as I move in that direction. My chest is tight, spun like a ball of twine, and when another gunshot rings out, it echoes around in my brain, rattling off the sides of my skull like a rubber ball.

I almost roll my eyes at the irony of winding up at Sydney’s door. It isn’t closed, and when I round the frame, I find an even bigger mess.

Crimson liquid is splattered across the bedspread, the rug on the floor, the dresser in the middle of the room. Willow’s slumped, face down on the floor, covered in what I can only assume to be Micah’s blood—or hope, rather, given the alternative.

A cloaked figure is sprawled across the floor just in front of the bed, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. More blood pools beneath them, staining their gray hair and the mask discarded near their head.

As I step inside, I feel a strange surge of satisfaction upon realizing who the figure is.

My father.

Moving on rather quickly when he doesn’t appear to be breathing, I sweep my gaze across the room and spot Violet huddled down against the other side of the bed. Just her black hair peeks out above the mattress, and I nearly drop the gun when I realize she’s alive.

Fuck.Fuck.

A ball of relief washes over me like a cleansing rain, and I dart around the bed, half-noting the blood and the disrupted clothing.

She makes a little noise that sounds a lot like how I feel, shock and respite from my presence.

“Jesus Christ, Little Echo.” I let the gun fall to the mattress and scoop her up, letting her climb into my arms and burying my face in her hair. I breathe deep, trying to cement that apple cider scent in my nostrils even if it is slightly obscured by the scent of her fear and blood.

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