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My gaze tore away from Shayla—my sister, my twin—to Mr. X. His booted foot took an ominous, slow step over her body while his monstrous coal eyes held mine. There was blood splattered across his face, clashing against his alabaster skin. An evil smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he took another step, then another, closing the distance between us.
“Shiloh,” he sung my name. His voice was light yet haunting and made my entire body tremble. I’d never forget his voice, no matter how much I’d wish I could.
My soul screamed,Run! Run! Run!
But my body wouldn’t listen.
Mr. X finished his walk down the long hall to stand before me. As if stuck in a trance, I watched him lift his bloody knife.
Closing my eyes, I screamed.
* * *
“Shiloh!” Firm hands grasped me by my upper arms and shook me. “Shiloh, wake up!”
My uncle Logan’s gruff voice broke through my chains of fear. Forcing my eyes open, the first thing I saw was his face. I sat up panting, drenched in sweat. If it hadn’t been for Logan sitting next to me, I would have panicked because I didn’t immediately recognize my surroundings. Blinking away the fog that still lingered from sleep, I took in the dark, bare room, from the few boxes stacked in the corner to the very uncomfortable air mattress I was lying on. Slowly, my memories came back to me. This was my new house. It was our first night sleeping here. I was safe. Mr. X didn’t know where I was.
“Christ, Shi,” Logan cursed, running his tattooed fingers through his coffee-brown hair. “It’s been a while since you’ve had a dream like that. I’d be surprised if you didn’t wake the neighbors.”
I clenched my jaw. How did I respond to that?I’m sorry?Why? I couldn’t control what I dreamt or how messed up my past was.
Logan sighed. He was kneeling on the floor next to my air mattress, looking tired, in nothing but black boxer briefs.The rest of his body, from his shoulders to his toes, was covered in colorful and beautiful tattoos. The ex-Navy SEAL turned U.S. Marshal was an ink addict. I had no idea how he got away with being so heavily tattooed working for the feds. But what did I know? I just wished he’d invest in some PJs.
“What time is it?” I asked, my voice sounding coarse. I pushed a strand of sweaty lilac hair away from my face. Seeing the bright color still took me by surprise. I’d dyed it the wild shade for my eighteenth birthday a few days ago as a way to honor my sister, Shayla. She’d dyed her light brown hair all kinds of crazy colors to set herself apart from me—her identical twin. She’d been the lively and edgy twin, who gave our parents hell, where I was the shy and obedient daughter who was too timid to disappoint anyone. I wished I’d been more like Shayla. Maybe she would still be alive today.
Logan stared at me for a moment, like he was debating how he should answer. Not that it’d do him any good. “A little before five.” He got to his feet. “Wear your tracker,” he ordered over his shoulder as he stalked out of my room.
I crawled off my air mattress and went inside my closet. Flipping on the light, I opened one of the boxes on the floor full of my clothes that needed to be hung. I dug around until I found a pair of leggings and matching tank.
Even though it was summer, and we were now living in the desert, I still put on an athletic zip-up jacket with thumb holes in the cuffs. I had scars on my arms. They were hard to look at and I hated the attention they drew. I pulled my hair up in a messy bun, grabbed my tennis shoes, and put on my GPS anklet tracker before making my way toward the front door of my new house I’d received the keys for yesterday.
I’d bought this three-bedroom Craftsman without even seeing it first. I had been relieved and happy it had looked just like the pictures the realtor had sent me. Because Logan and I had been hidden away in the Alaskan mountains for the past year, I’d had to do the entire house-buying process online and through email.Why?Well, because of WITSEC—a.k.a. the witness security program or witness protection.
My life in WITSEC had started the summer before my senior year. Because I’d been weeks away from turning seventeen at the time and Logan was my only living relative, he had been assigned to watch over me, thus resulting in him taking a break from his job. Logan’s position as a U.S. Marshal and my guardian had given him a little pull in deciding where we would be sequestered. Alaska had been beautiful but cold and isolated. The nearest neighbor had been miles away and it had been an hour drive to town, which had a population of no more than five hundred people. It was the perfect place to hide, temporarily. I’d needed time to recover, rehabilitate, and get a crash course in intense survival skills from Logan. Just in case. The past year had been the hardest of my life both emotionally and physically. But now that I was eighteen, Logan wanted to return to work and I needed to move on and finish high school.
Sitting on the wood floor by the front door, I was slipping on my shoes when Logan came back out of his room. He was dressed in jeans this time. My eyes were grateful. He held a small handgun in a shoulder holster. “Put this under your jacket. It’s small and lightweight.”
I unzipped my jacket and slipped it off, revealing the long scar on my inner right arm. It started at the crease of my elbow and ended at my wrist. Even a year later, I could feel the phantom sensation of Mr. X’s blade tearing open my skin.
Around both of my wrists and ankles were inch-wide scars. I supposed I’d given those to myself. For hours, I’d rubbed my skin raw and bloody in order to escape from the tight rope bindings Mr. X had put me in.
Just by looking at my wrists, one could guess how I had gotten them. They always guessed wrong, though. Back in Alaska, each time we’d driven to the closest town for supplies, I would receive lewd stares from men, and one time in line at the grocery store, an old lady had called me a sexual deviant. Everyone around us, even the cashier, had frozen and glued their gazes on me. Mortified, I’d dropped my basket of groceries and practically ran out of the store. I regretted how cowardly I had acted. I wished I could have been more like Shayla in that moment. She would have flicked her colorful hair, looked that old lady in the eye, grinned, and said, “Jealous?” But I wasn’t as strong as my sister had been. At least not yet. I was working on it. Until I found that strength, I refused to leave the house without wearing clothes that covered my scars, no matter the temperature outside. Just thinking about the heat, I started to second guess my move to Arizona. Only a tiny bit, though. It was beautiful here, with its breathtaking mountain views and vast deserts.
I dropped my jacket on the ground and took the leather gun holster from my uncle before slipping my arms through the holes. The straps rested over my shoulders and across my back, allowing the small holstered gun to hide between my left arm and ribs. Logan glanced down to make sure my slim black GPS anklet tracker was around my right ankle, then back up to the holster before I covered it with my jacket. I caught him taking me in from head to toe. I twirled around for him because I knew he was memorizing my appearance and exactly what I was wearing in case I didn’t come back.
“Don’t forget your phone,” he said.
I opened my mouth to argue, then snapped it closed.Crap!I’d left it in my room. I would’ve noticed I didn’t have it eventually. It was my source of music and who ran without music? I dashed back into my room to grab it and my Bluetooth earbuds. When I walked back into the living room, Logan wasn’t there. I didn’t search him out to say goodbye. Instead, I walked out the front door, put my earbuds in, selected my running playlist, and stuffed my phone into the snug side pocket of my leggings.
It was gray out. Standing on the front lawn, I could see the rays from the sun shining from behind the mountains as I did a few stretches. After I was warmed up, I headed north through the neighborhood.
* * *
Three and a half hours later, I slowed to a jog on my way back to the house. I was soaked with sweat and my breathing was labored and raspy. Logan was sitting on the top step of the porch waiting for me while texting on his phone and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
Note to self, pick up coffee mugs today.
He looked up at me as I paced the front lawn with my hands on my hips, trying to cool down. He shook his head. “If you quit smoking you wouldn’t sound like shit.”
