Page 22 of Betrayed
This time, I won’t get caught up in a complicated mess.
And hopefully, throughout it all, I can keep Lucian safe from the pain of knowing that the moment I stepped into his place…
That from the very first time he laid eyes on me…
I was there to betray him.
This time, when I face Caleb and the urge to fight or flee takes over, I won't freeze.
This time, I won't let him hurt the people I care about.
Or me.
This time, I will hunt him.
I say the words out loud, “I’m hunting him,” to convince myself and boost my courage so I can open the door and see what caused that sound.
The cabin is chilly, but when I step outside, I realize the walls provide more protection than I had thought. The wind bites my face and hands, bitterly cold. I go to the window.
There’s a dead bird. “Poor thing.” He must have flown into the window. That was the sound I heard.
I kneel, reaching out not to touch him but to hold a hand over him. What am I doing? Saying a prayer? A blessing?
A wing moves.
Surprised, I stepped back on my heels, watching the bird come back to life, initially a bit off balance, then finally soaring into the gray skies.
As I stand, I notice boot prints under the window. Big ones. With thick tread.
My heart pounds in my chest, a sick feeling, white heat flashing over my face.
The prints are fresh. Deep in the soft, dark earth. Fertile soil, my dad would say.
There’s no way Caleb knows I’m here. Unless…am I out of time? Has it already been five days since they gave Cass the warning?
I cringe, remembering finding her there on the floor, the cut across her chest.
Blood.
It could be Caleb.
I picture him peering through the glass. Watching me sleep. Bringing me nightmares. Fear threatens to swallow me whole. With the toe of my own boot, I swipe back and forth over the dirt, erasing the prints from the ground as well as from my mind.
I have to forget about this. Or I’ll get too scared. I’ll freeze again.
I run into the cabin, grabbing my backpack and the notebook.
By noon, I’ve already visited the first three contacts.
The first said they didn’t know anything, but they looked scared. The second one slammed the door in my face. The third hesitated, but I could tell they wanted to talk.
A girl around my age, with white-blonde hair and dark circles under her eyes. Helena. She gave me two names, actually.
One was The Bureaucrat, a pub two towns over where she worked until last week. The other is the name of a girl who still works there.
Mary.
And the whisper of someone who disappeared last week.
