Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(89)

“Let’s see.” Steve stretches out his hand for the phone.

She presses Send and shoves it back into her pocket. “There. All set.”

“Can I see it?”

Ignoring the request, she turns and begins to backtrack along the path. “I really want to get back to the house. He’s alone, and he’s scared.”

“Bella, you didn’t just text your son.”

Trepidation prickles the back of her neck, but she forces herself to keep moving. “Why would you say that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Dear God. He knows that Max can’t possibly be texting her because . . . because . . .

She tries to shut out the thought, but it comes at her, smothers her.

If anything has happened to Max . . .

I’ll die.

Not “cross over,” “pass on,” “be called home,” or any of those innocuous-sounding things the locals refer to. Not merely feel as though she’s stopped breathing. No, she actually will stop. She’ll cease to exist.

She. Will. Die.

Please let him be okay. Please.

“You just told me he can’t read, Bella. So how can you text him?”

“We voice text! I told you!”

Realizing she sounds shrill, she turns to look at him. Something has hardened in his eyes.

She whirls again to face the top of the path.

“No,” he says behind her as she takes a step in that direction. “Stop.”

It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command.

She ignores it, breaking into a run.

“Stop!”

He’s running, too. Chasing her.

“Help!” she shrieks. “Help me! Someone help me!”

She trips over another vine but manages to stay upright. He hits the same vine but isn’t as lucky, and she hears him fall with a curse. That buys her a little time, but not enough. He’s gaining on her.

“Help me! Please help me!” She screams as though there’s someone, anyone, around to hear.

She hits a patch of moss as slick as an ice skating rink. Her feet skid and arms flail. This time, she can’t keep her balance. She sprawls face down on the path, her foot twisting at an unnatural angle.

He’s right behind her, standing over her.

“Get up.”

She tries to scramble away, clawing at the ground, ignoring the fierce pain in her ankle.

“I said get up!”

She sees it then. Sees his hand.

Sees the gun.

“My son. Did you—”

“Max is fine. Do you think I’m a monster? I have a little girl the same age. I would never hurt a child, Bella. Never.”

Panic is surging, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Why—why should I believe you?”

“Because this isn’t about Max.”

“Then what? What is it about?”

“Shut up. Move.”

She shuts up and moves.

“Walk.”

“I’m trying.” She tests her weight on her right foot. “My ankle . . . I think it might be broken.”

“Walk anyway.”

She limps, just like . . .

Oh, Odelia. I can’t believe there were moments when I didn’t trust you.

Please watch over Max for me. Please . . .

I wish you could be the one to raise him.

The wayward thought catches her off guard, but it’s utterly right. So right that she’s filled with a deep sense of regret that it won’t possibly happen.

He should have had his parents. It’s not right. It isn’t fair.

Prodded through the forest with a gun in her back, she feels tears mixing with the rain on her face. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what? You mean helping you look for your son? This was your idea,” Steve Pierson says. “Don’t you remember? You said he was at the playground looking for treasure in the woods.”

“You said that.”

“Did I?” he asks mildly. “I think that anyone who might have overheard our conversation would agree that you were the one who thought the boys might be in the woods. I was being helpful, driving you here and helping you search.”

“You weren’t helping.” Her words are laced with venom, and she doesn’t care. “You were plotting.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. We split up when we got here, of course, to cover more ground. And then I heard you screaming for help. I searched until I found you . . . but it was too late.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’d fallen down a steep slope and hit your head so hard that you’ll never wake up. It will be a terrible accident. Such a shame. Eleanor and I will be so sorry to hear about it, but of course we’ll probably be long gone by the time they find your body. Funny how things work out.”

His matter-of-fact tone is as chilling as the awful things he’s saying—a blow-by-blow recap of something that hasn’t happened yet. But he’s no psychic. He’s a psychopath.

“You made it up,” she says in wonder. “What happened this morning, out on the road—you made it up.”

“You can’t prove that. Nobody can.”

“But why? Why would you do it?”