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It only takes ten to fifteen minutes to get to her house, but the drive seems to take forever, my chest caving as I pull into her driveway and notice all the curtains are drawn.
“I told her to get out of Macedon,” I whisper shakily as I dart from my vehicle without turning off the car. “Fuck, maybe she did. Maybe the house is empty.”
Hope shifts into pure alarm when I approach the front door and notice the jamb is destroyed. My lips quiver as I push the door open, listening to the eerie squeal of the hinges as I linger on the sun-parched porch. Behind me, the world explodes with the sound of bugs, the seasons having already invited summer into Macedon without the baking heat. Birds chirp in the nearby trees, adding a rustic charm to the situation that doesn’t belong.
When I step inside, I shudder and cover my mouth.
I’m thinking the worst already. And why wouldn’t I think the worst? What will the Persian do to make sure I don’t stick around? It’s death or betrayal—those are my options at this point.
And neither of them appeals to me.
One step turns into two while my nostrils struggle to expand. Each breath inhaled feels oppressive and thick with anxiety, pure terror invading my gut and turning my stomach into a ball of knots. My hand flies to my stomach, my solar plexus, my chest, each destination buzzing with worry as I make my way deeper into the house.
I pass the basement door as I make my way to the den, observing the plants lining the shelves, the windows, the spaces between comfy furniture. It’s nearly the same as it was when I visited after Christmas. My eyes instinctively search for the succulent I gave her. It sits near a window with the scarf wrapped around the pot, the leaves a radiant green with the tips dipped purple.
It draws me toward it, the plant granting me a reprieve from my panic as I think about the time I spent with my fencing coach. Reality slaps me in the face when I notice the silence of the place, the oppressive weight of quiet surrounding me. I frown while running my fingers over the scarf.
She wouldn’t leave this behind, I consider while turning toward the hallway leading back to the foyer. Pale sunlight leads me in that direction and I pause at the staircase, glancing tentatively toward the second floor. Her car is here. Nothing is disturbed to indicate her sudden departure.
Shakily, I ascend the stairs and check each bedroom, approaching what I presume is her private bedroom last. The door opens without a sound and I locate my mentor on her bed in the most unnatural position, her limbs extended at odd angles as blood cakes her white T-shirt. She’s in her underwear, having probably just come out of the shower when her assailant attacked.
A wail rises in my throat as I back into the hallway and stumble toward the stairs. The carpet scrapes my knees when I hit the ground, my hand searching for my phone without even thinking about the movement. I’m panting heavily, teetering between sheer shock and pure panic. My thumb taps Parker’s name and I hold the phone to my ear, listening intently to the most normal sound in the world as my brain registers how very dead Coach Neill is in that bedroom.
I don’t have to check. I just know.
Gulping breaths of air don’t help me. The line clicks and Parker’s gruff voice slithers through the line, sounding a million miles away.
Shock grips my vocal cords, robbing me of the ability to speak. I’m choking on air, on the awful scent of death, on soiled linens soaked with hours of decrepit waste the body gets rid of upon the failure of the vessel to survive such earthly trauma.
And when I can speak, all I can say is, “Parker, I need you.”
