Page 298 of Taken Away

“Come home, Aubrey,” she whispered.

Then, softer still, as if speaking to both the girl and the sister she had never stopped loving:

“Come home.”

Anne Langford

The Night of the Storm

The cell never became completely dark.

A strip of fluorescent light slipped beneath the door, cutting across the concrete floor and ending just short of Anne’s cot.

She lay on her side, facing the wall.

Sleep had become dangerous. Sleep took her back to Blackwood.

Back to the storm. Back to Mabel.

Anne closed her eyes.

She had thought of everything. For weeks, she had been careful. Careful about where she went. What she said. Who saw her.

Her boyfriend had helped without asking too many questions, providing the pieces Anne needed to make it appear she had never left Florida.

She had built herself an alibi before she ever pointed the car north.

By the time she reached Sylva, darkness had settled over the mountains and the storm was moving in.

Anne turned onto the old logging road and killed her headlights.

She knew the road. Had known it long before the trees grew thick around it and the ruts deepened beneath years of rain.

She pulled far enough into the brush that the car disappeared from view.

Then she waited.

From the edge of the field, Anne watched Blackwood Winery.

One car left. Then another.

Headlights swept across the vines before disappearing down the mountain.

Anne stood in the wet grass as the first drops of rain began to fall.

She waited until the last car pulled away.

Until the winery went dark.

Until Blackwood belonged only to the mountain again.

Then she crossed the field, through the vines, toward the Victorian.

Anne kept to the shadows, circling the side of the house until she reached the old cellar door.

She stared at it.

Harold used to forget to lock it.