Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(75)

Calla falters. No. She didn’t know everything about her.

Not by a long shot.

But she knows one thing.

“You killed her,” she repeats, straightening her shoulders, defiant—perhaps foolishly so, but she can’t help herself. “I know you killed her. And you killed Darrin, too.”

A shadow crosses those beady black eyes, and Calla knows she’s made a terrible mistake. She should have played dumb.

Should have tried to escape immediately. Should have— The hands reach out for her.

“No!” Still clutching the laptop, she writhes out of reach.

The hands claw at her.

She kicks upward, hard, hearing a gratifying grunt when her leg makes contact. Sharon Logan doubles over, clutching her stomach.

Calla darts for the door, taking an extra split second to slam it closed behind her.

Then she hurls herself for the stairs.

Please don’t let me fall . . .

She can hear Sharon Logan coming out of the room, coming after her.

Mom, please don’t let me fall . . .

She reaches the first floor and goes not for the front door, which would take too long to unlock with the chain and deadbolts, but toward the back of the house.

In the kitchen, she flounders momentarily, nearly overcome by panic.

Footsteps are racing toward her.

Calla runs into the changing room and locks the door behind her.

She leans against it, panting.

Is it safer to escape to the pool area, which is fenced in, or hide in here until the police arrive?

If they’re even coming.

Could Jacy possibly have understood the address she blurted out?

Shouldn’t she hear sirens by now?

No, it’s probably only been a few minutes since she was on the phone with him. It feels like a lifetime.

Oh, Jacy . . . Oh, Mom . . . I’m so scared.

She listens for movement on the other side of the door but hears nothing.

She’s not naive enough to think Sharon Logan abandoned the chase . . . but she could very well have moved on to the other end of the first floor, searching. It’s a big house, and she might not have seen which direction Calla took at the bottom of the stairs.

She glances longingly at the door leading outside.

If she can make it across the pool area undetected, she can probably scale the fence. And scream for help.

Only, this is Florida.

It’s not like Lily Dale, where people practically live outside when the weather is nice.

Here, they’re all insulated in their climate-controlled homes. Calla hasn’t seen a soul in the neighborhood other than the ghost of Mrs. Evans next door.

If she screams for help, there’s a solid chance no one will hear.

And there’s a chance she won’t be able to make it over the tall fence. It’s not like it’s a chain link, easy to climb.

Then again, if she stays here, sooner or later Sharon Logan will find her.

She might break down the door, like something out of a horror film.

And then she’ll kill me, like she killed Mom.

Calla has no choice.

She has to make a run for it.

But first, she opens the cupboard where they keep the bright-colored beach towels. She slips the laptop in among the stack, making sure it’s not visible. There. At least it will be safe there until she comes back.

If I come back.

No. She can’t think that way.

She peers through the blinds. The coast is clear. No sign of anyone lurking in the backyard.

It’s now or never. Go.

Breath held, she quietly unbolts the back door . . .

Painstakingly turns the knob . . .

Opens the door . . .

Takes a step through . . .

Closes it behind her.

Immediately, she realizes that she forgot to turn the button in the knob, locking herself out.

There’s no going back.

Swift-footed, she makes her way across the flagstones, toward the pool and the fence beyond. She glances over her shoulder at the house to make sure she’s not being followed. Too late, she realizes that the danger isn’t behind her, it’s leaped out in front of her.

The signet ring glints ominously in the sun as a hand closes around Calla’s upper arm. “Where are you going?”

“Get away from me! Help! Someone, help!”

Fighting like a panther, Calla fends off her captor, breaks away. But only for a moment, then she’s tumbled to the hard ground, rolling, scratching, wrestling.

Again, she manages to scramble out of reach, and for a moment, she believes she’s free.

Then she realizes that the hard ground is no longer beneath her, and she’s falling . . .

Landing on something pliant.

The covered pool.

The tarp holds her weight for a few moments.

Long enough for her to remember Jacy’s vision of her struggling in the water.

Then the tarp sinks, and she’s floundering in warm, rank water.

Is this how it’s going to end?

Is she going to drown?

No! You’ll be okay . . . you can swim . . .

Except the tarp is there, tangling around her like an octopus, and her attacker is there, too. In the water with her, on top of her, holding her under.

Calla struggles to break the surface, her lungs bursting hot with the need for air.

Viselike hands hold her under, suffocating her, and it’s just like Jacy said, and she’s going to die here, at this house, like her mother did.