The Last Echo (22 page)

CAINE. HIS NAME WAS CAINE.

And she knew that.

It was a step he’d never taken before.

A new beginning. He didn’t fight his smile as he crept across the creaking floorboards, and then it faded from his lips. He hated the way everything here made noise, squeaking and groaning like complaints. He hated the outdated furniture and the musty-smelling pillows and the big, wide-open windows that overlooked the lake.
Picturesque,
his mother used to call the windows on their summer visits, but he disagreed. To him it was like being in a fishbowl. Especially at night, when the darkness outside was so complete, so impenetrable, that even the palest light inside put him on display. Neighbors or not.

That was why there were sheets hanging over each and every window now. So that no one could see inside. So that no one could look in and watch him. Spy on him. Judge him.

So that he and his girl could be alone.

The grin came back as he glanced down at the clean nightgown he carried . . . a gift. It was pretty, the nightgown. White cotton with just a hint of starched lace along the scooped collar. Pristine, just like her.

He stopped when he reached her door. It wasn’t locked, another thing he hated about this house . . . he hadn’t had time to outfit it properly. Still, he was good with his hands, and he’d managed to put a decent room together using the things he had at his disposal . . . sheets, wire, duct tape.

Plus, the isolation was good.

And now that they were getting to know each other, he doubted she’d want to leave. She hadn’t even screamed, and they always screamed at first.

Not her, though. Not his girl. She was special.

Thank God, because he needed her. He needed to sleep. It was dark and it had been too long since he’d really slept. Good sleep. Deep sleep.

But with her here, all that would change. Now he could rest.

Because now he wasn’t alone.

HE WAS IN THE BED WITH HER.

Even if Violet hadn’t felt the slant of the mattress and the steady rhythm of breathing coming from beside her, she’d have recognized the imprints on him from anywhere.

She released a shaky breath, struggling against that same fog she’d felt before . . . after eating the soup. Too many hours spent lying prone made her back ache like it had never ached before. Even the prickling sensation that Caine brought with him couldn’t overshadow this kind of pain. The noxious rubber smell he bore only made it easier for her to remain alert. His imprints kept her lucid.

She flexed her toes, moving as fluidly as she could. She didn’t want to disturb him. She didn’t want him to know she was awake.

But her foot didn’t just flex . . . it shifted. And her eyes widened as she lay there for several long, unblinking moments, trying to decide what that meant. Trying to decide what to do next.

She mimicked his breathing pattern. If he woke, she wanted him to believe she was still asleep. And then slowly, carefully, she tried her hand—the one farthest from Caine’s side.

It moved too.

Relief blossomed and she drew it down as steadily as she could. She clutched it against her own chest, against her heart. Curling her wrist, she wanted to sob with relief as the pain in her shoulder subsided at long last.

When, after endless moments, she was sure she hadn’t disturbed him, that he was oblivious to her stirrings, she let her hand drift upward until it found her throat.

She gasped as she realized the bindings at her neck were missing too, and then she bit her lips, silencing her own cry of relief.

She stiffened, waiting. Until she was certain Caine still slept.

He’d untied her. She was free. But why? Why would he take a chance like this?

A low, muffled groan escaped his lips. To Violet, it sounded like a growl or a bellow, not like a comforting sound of sleep. He shifted too, and she nearly forgot how to breathe, her chest collapsing in on itself.

She stayed where she was, unmoving, unblinking. After what felt like an eternity, she closed her eyes and tried again, moving ever so slightly, rolling as gently as she could onto her side. When he didn’t react to that, either, she moved farther still, edging breath by breath toward the side of the mattress.

She had no plan after that. She had no idea where she was or what she would do if he awoke. All she knew was that she had to try. There was no choice.

His smell—the harsh scent of scorched rubber—filled the room around her, and the volatile flavor of alcohol assailed her tongue. She ignored it all.

Still lying down, she dropped her leg over the edge of the bed. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for him to realize what she was doing.

The consequences wouldn’t be pretty, that much she knew. That much she’d witnessed.

She had to be cautious, steady, silent.

The inside of her lip bled from where she bit down, shushing herself. Her foot brushed the solid floor beneath her and her heart skipped. But she couldn’t be too optimistic. There was still a long ways to go.

She eased up, using her arm to lift herself from the mattress.

He slept so soundly—so peacefully—beside her that she half-wondered if he’d drugged himself as well. It was a ridiculous notion, of course. A hope-filled delusion.

As soon as she was sitting, dizziness swept over her. She blinked and struggled not to sway . . . not to collapse back onto the bed again. She fisted the sheets at her sides, waiting for her vision to clear.

After a moment, once her head cleared, she made some quick mental notes. The room was dark, but she knew the basic layout. Bed. Chest of drawers. Door.

That was the important thing: She knew where the door was.

Her bare toes settled on the cold floor beneath her and she tipped forward, gripping one of the canopy posts for support. A post that just hours earlier had held her immobile.

She swallowed, her parched throat aching and raw. Her heart beat so hard in her chest, she feared it might explode.

And then . . . she stood.

She took a tentative step.

And then another. And another.

She crouched now, feeling her way in the dark. Her fingers grazed the mattress as she used it as a guide. Each step was carefully plotted, her toes testing the ground ahead of her.

As she reached the bedpost closest to the door, she released it, suddenly lost in a sea of darkness. Yet she didn’t slow. She couldn’t slow.

She reached out, her breath catching as her fingertips brushed the wall and she feathered them along until she felt the frame, and then—with a silent sigh of relief—the doorknob.

When it turned, she nearly cried.

It wasn’t until the door was closed behind her that she felt her heart start again. It was less dark out here, in the hallway. Somewhere ahead of her, in one of the rooms beyond, a light was on.

It was faint, but unmistakable.

Violet crept forward on careful, noiseless feet. It was only then that she realized she wasn’t wearing her own clothes . . . that she was dressed in what looked like a child’s nightgown. It was old-fashioned and stiff, and the lace at her neck itched. She reached up to scratch it, freezing as she caught a glimpse of her hand.

Her fingernails were painted a familiar shade of pale purple.

Her stomach tightened and she forgot about the lace, her feet moving faster now, her thoughts crystal clear. She had to escape.

Like a moth, Violet flitted toward the light and found herself standing in a cave of sorts. Every window had been sealed, covered with mismatched sheets that had been cut apart and taped back together with long strips of silver duct tape. There was no way she could look outside . . . no way to see where she was.

She glanced around her. The home was as old-fashioned as the nightgown she wore. Most of the furniture was delicate: velvet cushions and carved woods with intricate, spindled legs. There were figurines and vases and painted chests. Things that could easily be antiques, she supposed, but seemed more like leftovers thrown together into one strange patchwork collection . . . much like the sheets covering the windows. Beside the brick hearth, perfect rows of firewood were neatly stacked.

The light itself came from a partially open doorway, and she hurried toward it, hoping they were alone, that it was just the two of them in this house. She hoped he didn’t have a partner.

She held her breath as she nudged the door open with her toe and found herself staring into the kitchen. It was small and cheerful, despite the black sheet covering the window above the sink. The appliances were avocado green, reminiscent of another era.

But there it was, sitting on the counter, the one thing Violet had been searching for: a telephone.

She could hardly believe her luck. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to survive this ordeal after all.

The old rotary dial telephone was the same kind her grandmother had once had, and Violet snatched it off the counter as she dropped to her knees, clutching the phone on her lap. She lifted the receiver to her ear and listened.

She waited.

She pressed the button on the base, the one that would end a call, jiggling it up and down.

But there was nothing. No dial tone. No sound at all.

She checked the back of the phone, suddenly feeling the floor drop out from beneath her.

It wasn’t attached to anything. There was no cord connecting it to the wall.

She leaned her head back, releasing a silent mewl.
No,
she wailed inwardly.
No!

She had no idea how many precious minutes she’d already wasted, or how many she had left, but after searching as quietly as she could through the kitchen drawers, she realized she wasn’t going to find the cord. Not easily, anyway . . . and definitely not quickly enough.

There was only one choice: She was going to have to take her chances outside.

She didn’t have time to search for her own clothes, or for her shoes, so she grabbed whatever she could find.

Anxiety gripped her chest, making it ache, gripping like a vise as she grabbed a pair of woolen socks stuffed inside a pair of old work boots. She thought about taking the boots too, but she knew just by looking at them that they were several sizes too large and they would only slow her down. A coat hanging from a stand beside the door would at least keep her warm. She wouldn’t let herself think about who these things really belonged to.

Since the door locked from the inside, Violet simply unbolted it and stepped outside.

She was swallowed by blackness so complete that it sucked the breath out of her. She heard herself gasp at the same time her inner voice silently screamed at her:
Run!

And she did. Without another thought, she ran. Stumbling and scrambling and running some more.

She didn’t get far before she found the trap. Or rather, before she triggered it.

There was no way she could’ve seen it. And no way it could have been avoided. When she hit it—the wire, the thin metal cable that sliced into her shins—she howled into the darkness that engulfed her. That was just before she lost her balance and spilled forward, landing on her face and tasting the rich dank earth beneath her.

And from behind, all the lights of the house switched on, blazing to life.

And she knew: She had caused that. When she’d tripped the wire.

She rolled onto her side, feeling leaves and needles beneath her as she clutched her shins. She spit, trying get rid of the taste of dirt in her mouth, and even without looking, she could feel the blood beneath her fingers and knew she’d cut herself.

Her mind raced. She didn’t know what to do, but she couldn’t just lie there and wait for something to happen. For
him
to find her.

Beneath the glare of the lights, she saw the car in the driveway. She hadn’t noticed it before, when it had been camouflaged by blackness, and her heart sank.

Keys!
She jammed her blood-slicked hands into the coat’s pockets, hoping, praying she’d get lucky and they’d be in there. But she found nothing, and she cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner. She should’ve been searching for car keys instead of trying to find a cord for the phone.

Still, she didn’t recall seeing any keys, and there was no time for regrets now.

She clambered to her feet, taking in her surroundings as best she could. All around her, dark tree trunks rose toward the sky like inky shadows, creating an even darker canopy overhead.

She was somewhere deep in the woods.

And if Violet knew anything, she knew the woods.

“Violet? Vi-o-let, where are you?”

It was Caine. She didn’t know him well enough to recognize his voice, but he was the only one out here who knew her name. The only one who would be calling for her in the middle of the night.

Hearing his voice only spurred her on, making Violet run even faster. Beneath her feet, branches cracked and she stumbled more often than she should have. Her socks were soaked from running across the damp forest floor, but she refused to shed them. They were the only barrier between her and the rocks and thorns and sticks that threatened to slice her feet. Her bare legs had nothing to protect them and were being ripped and scraped every time she bumped into something spiked or prickly. And she’d fallen more times than she could count.

It was so damn hard to run in the dark.

Still, she kept on. Keeping low and trying to stay quiet as she moved in quick bursts, huddling behind clusters of trees whenever she could.

She would’ve called out, cried for help, but she knew it was useless. And it would only serve to give Caine something to focus on, some way to find her. A deadly game of Marco Polo.

She already knew he was gaining ground. He had several advantages over her. Most importantly,
he
knew where they were.

And he had a flashlight. Violet had seen its beam, searching and scanning through the trees, cutting through the night. Her heart had nearly stopped when it had come too close. And unlike her,
he
had shoes.

Violet didn’t know how long she could outrun him. She had only one advantage. His imprints.

Even without seeing him, she could sense whenever he was drawing near. Her skin, her nose, and her tongue warned her of his presence.

For now, at least, the distance was enough and Violet broke cover and sprinted once more. She raced as fast as she could, trying to ignore the punishing ache in her feet as she moved over the jagged surface. She stubbed her toes and cracked her already bleeding shins against fallen branches in her path. Again and again she tripped.

And again and again she picked herself up to keep moving.

She had to keep moving. . . . It was the only way to survive.

Violet was exhausted, her body fatigued and her spirit crumbling. Her eyes had adjusted enough so she could at least see the ground in front of her and the trees all around her. The sound of her own breathing eclipsed all else . . . crickets, the rustling of leaves overhead, and the far-off calls of night birds.

She pinched her side, massaging the stabbing pain, and panted as she leaned heavily against the rough surface of a tree trunk, desperately seeking her second wind. She couldn’t give up.

She knew now they were near water, probably a lake. At first she thought she’d stepped into a puddle. But as she’d waded farther, she soon realized it was getting deeper. Too deep to simply walk through.

Since she couldn’t see well enough to know for certain, she’d thrown a rock and had heard it land with a definitive plunk. At the very least, it was an impassible pond.

After catching her breath, she eased away from her hiding place and maneuvered once more through the brush. She shoved aside branches and prickly vines, and brushed away spiders’ webs in her path.

When at last she saw the building, she stopped dead, her entire body going rigid. It seemed to appear from out of nowhere, large and looming, blotting out an entire section of forest. Whatever it was, it definitely
wasn’t
a house.