Page 105 of The Triangle

Sneaky, sneaky fuckers. Because that’s how I’d have come. And I knew that. Every single time I looked out at that lake and marveled at the low-hanging mist. The choppy water. The walls of mountain surrounding it on three sides.

I knew that’s how they’d come.

I get to the other side of the house, the part I never made it to, and end up in another concrete hallway. Which I traverse quickly, and without much caution. I turn into the first room, a bedroom with a wall of glass, and almost shit myself when I realize this is ground level now and there’s a soldier ten feet away on the other side of the window.

He looks at me. Perhaps catching my movement in some stray moonbeam. Perhaps not.

He’s wearing a faceplate so I can’t see him. But he can sure as fuck see me. Because I can feel his gaze like heat when it lands on me. I can feel his stare behind that plate.

And then he turns away. Starts walking. His gaze scanning the forest as he stalks along the side of the house.

Or can he? See me? Maybe…

The tactical side of my brain processes this and comes up with two possibilities.

One. That faceplate is hiding infrared gear. I’m behind glass, which hides a heat signature because it’s reflective.

Two. He’s not after me.

I back out of the bedroom and creep along the hallway—no glass shards here so it’s a nice reprieve—and follow him. Looking into doorways as I pass bedroom after bedroom. Catching sight of his dark figure outside as he walks the perimeter of the house.

We end up in a small living area. Three sides encased in glass, one of which is a door. One of those foldaway window doors that open up to an expansive deck.

He’s coming up the stairs to the deck landing when I enter, so I scramble down to the floor and crawl, sniper-style, over to the couch. Just in case he can see me and we’re in the middle of a secret meeting or something.

What? Christine, this isn’t a game, bitch. This guy is here to kill you.

He opens the door and I hold my breath, my heart pounding so fast, so loud. For sure he can hear that.

But he just steps inside, assault rifle at low ready.

Which makes me pause.

And then a tinny voice through the faceplate speaker says, “Christine.”

You know that feeling in your gut when shit just got real? Well, I get that. I get that feeling so hard, so bad, I want to vomit.

“Christine,” he hisses again.

No.

I swallow down the sick and shake my head.

No.

“Christine,” he repeats. This time louder. More urgency. “Jesus Christ. Where did you go?”

I am not the reason this is happening.

“Christine.” He traverses the room, out of sight for a few seconds as I silently scramble along the couch to keep us on opposite ends. And when I peek around the edge of the arm, his back is to me. He’s looking down the hallway, head tilted like a curious dog.

I am the reason this is happening.

Some part of me understands this. Knows this to be true.

I just don’t remember it.

But just because he’s not here to kill me doesn’t mean I’m not here to kill him.