The Escape (18 page)

• • •

Avery grunted and Fletcher turned, relief crashing over him. He saw her emerge from the safety of a burned-out stump. He ran for her, thankful. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to kiss her. He hadn’t realized how worried he had been. He ran to her, and her eyes widened in terror.
What
had
happened? Why was she scared?

He closed the distance between them, but suddenly there was a severe pain in his thigh. It felt like his kneecap went slack, his hips sliding.

In his mind’s eye, he saw his whole skeleton falling into a heap of Halloween bones. Instinctively, his hands went to the source of the pain. His fingers were warm and sticky. He was covered in blood.

Fletcher stared at the handle of the knife. It was the same knife that Adam had given him to hold on to before they walked down the trail. The blade was plunged hilt-deep in his muscle.

He didn’t understand. “Avery?”

• • •

Avery stabbed Fletcher. She had no other choice. She ran past him, leaving the knife sticking out of his thigh. Tears clouded her vision.
Get
to
the
road, get to the road, get to the road
.

The rain was steady now, creating rivulets of mud and water. But up ahead, Avery could see headlights on the road. She dug her fingers and the toes of her boots into the mud and pushed herself up, her ankle screaming in protest the entire time. The pain was thrumming all the way up her leg now, begging her not to walk. But she couldn’t stop. Fletcher would be behind her—maybe more slowly than before, but he would come after her.

Fletcher
is
your
friend! You stabbed your friend!

No
, she told herself,
Fletcher
is
a
murderer.

Avery’s fingertips grazed asphalt just as she heard movement behind her. She could barely make out Fletcher’s voice calling her name, the sound half muffled by the rain.

She launched herself the last few feet until her feet met pavement. She pushed her way to standing and darted a few feet, then froze, her entire body paralyzed.

The tree was in front of her. The one with the gash, the scar of her mother’s car burned into the trunk. Her stomach turned over on itself, and the bile itched at the back of her throat.

Headlights blinded her.

A horn wailed through the sheets of rain.

Tires squealed, the yellow streaks of light washing over her.

She couldn’t move.

Avery didn’t know what she felt first: the impact, the terror, or the asphalt cutting through her skin as she skittered across it. The last things she remembered were the ugly sound her head made when it hit the ground and someone calling her name.

Then everything went dark.

A haloed yellow glow throbbed behind Avery’s eyelids.

“It looks like she’s waking up.”

There was a swirl of sounds: beeps and a weird whoosh of air. Slowly, slowly, a face came into view.

“Dad?”

“Oh thank God, Avery. Thank God.”

He collapsed on her, gathering her in a tender hug. “What happened?”

There were tears in her father’s eyes. “You don’t remember?”

She blinked. “Fletcher—Fletch and I went into the woods.” She felt herself blanch. “He—he came after me. He said I had to die.”

Chief Templeton squeezed Avery’s hand. “Fletcher is very, very sick, honey.”

Tears pooled on her lower lashes. “He killed Adam. How did I—?” She looked around the hospital room. “Why am I in the hospital? How did I get here?”

“You ran into the street. Fletcher pushed you out of the way.”

“How do you know that? There was no one else out there.”

“I didn’t. It was Officer Blount. He was the one driving.”

“Did Mrs. Carroll tell you about Fletcher?”

“No. Fletcher told us about his mother.”

Avery sat up. “What?”

“Honey, she was the one who drove you off the road on your bike. She vandalized Fletcher’s locker and her own house.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Fletcher has schizophrenia. His father and sister live in a different house because Fletcher attacked his sister when he was eleven. Mrs. Carroll knew that it had to have been Fletcher who murdered Adam, but she couldn’t bear the thought. She didn’t want to lose her son. She thought if she could drive suspicion away from him, that—” He shrugged. “I don’t know what she thought. But I do know I should have listened to you. Your theory was pretty good.”

“My theory? Dad, I was completely wrong about Fletcher.”

“Sort of. He had a psychotic break. He didn’t really know what he was doing when he went after Adam or you. He’s going to jail, but he’s going to get help there.”

Emotions crashed over Avery—she was sad, terrified, exhausted. Adam was dead. Fletcher was going to jail. She felt sorry for him, her friend, sitting alone behind bars.
But
he
had
killed
Adam
, she reminded herself.
And
he
tried
to
kill
me
. Still, it didn’t make sense—no part of it seemed right or simple or easy. No part of life felt that way anymore.

“I’m talking about his mother,” Chief Templeton went on. “That’s the part you got right. You told me she acted strangely and that I should look into it. I didn’t listen. I should have.” He stroked the back of Avery’s hand with his thumb. “You’re a pretty decent detective, Templeton.”

Even with all the hospital equipment and the sterile walls of the room, Avery felt herself warm. “You’re not so bad yourself, Chief.”

It takes a village to write a book and this one is no exception. Special thanks to mega-agents Amberly Finarelli and Andrea Hurst for making me feel like family, and to editor Annette Pollert-Morgan for taking a chance on me. As always, thanks to the unstoppable Sourcebooks team for their unyielding awesome. Thanks to Andrew Hensley, MD, for pointing me in the right direction to research mental illness and to Lee Lofland for always providing me access to the best and brightest in law enforcement, namely Marco, Stan, Andy, Rick, and of course, Dr. Love. Thank you Graham Haworth for making me breathe and Lynn Cotner for making me laugh. Thanks to everyone over at Wattpad for their enthusiasm and support of all my works, and an extra-special thanks to all those readers who wrote and cheered me along the way: I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this without you.

Thank you for reading
!

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