Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(17)

But I don’t want to lie.

I realize for the first time that the table, the room, is really too young for her. She’s not a child of six, but closer to twelve, with mascara coating her steel-gray eyes, a harsh slash of overly bright lipstick smearing her lips.

She stares at me, takes another sip of apple juice. Or maybe it is scotch, eighteen-year-old Glenlivet, straight from the bottle.

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.

“Liar.”

“If I could go back, I would.”

“Bigger liar.”

“Vero—”

“Shhh . . .” She stands abruptly, and I hear it now: heavy footsteps coming from down the hall.

I can’t help myself. I shudder, and across from me, Vero smiles, but it is not a nice look.

Now that she’s standing, I realize her dress is cut nearly to her navel. Not at all appropriate for a twelve-year-old. And peeking from beneath the flounces of pink are green and purple smudges, bruises covering her arms and legs.

The footsteps, looming closer. As more petals fall from the climbing rose, fresh blood dripping from the thorns.

I want to touch this marble statue of a woman-child, who already holds herself too tight and defies me with her gaze to comment on the neckline of her dress, the state of her limbs.

“Be strong,” I whisper, but we both know that is not the problem. Vero has always been tough. In this world, however, those who can’t bend eventually break.

Footsteps. Louder. Heavier. Ominous.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I miss you—”

“You killed me.”

My mouth opens. I have nothing else to say.

“Run,” Vero states firmly, the child more in command than the adult. “Get the hell out and don’t look back.”

But I can’t bring myself to leave her.

Again.

“He’s here! Don’t you understand? He’s going to find you, and when he does . . .”

“It’s not your fault,” I hear myself say again, but Vero is already turning away from me.

“Stupid loser. Get out. Get away. Run, dammit! Run!”

I want to do all of those things. Instead, I do none of those things. I push away from the table. I approach this little girl who is not so little anymore. And even though I know what’s going to happen next, I take her into my arms.

For one second, she is there. I can feel her. I can smell her. Vero. And in that moment, as always, I know exactly what I have done.

Then her flesh dissolves within my embrace. And I cradle nothing but a pile of bones, covered in hundreds of fat white maggots that wriggle against my skin.

In my arms, her skull slowly rotates, regards me with dark, empty sockets.

“Run,” Vero’s skeleton orders me.

But it’s too late. He’s already here.


* * *



MY EYES BOLT awake. Bright overhead lights. Sterile hospital room. I don’t think anymore. I move.

Grabbing the first batch of wires and wrenching them from my body. Blood sprays from the back of my hand as the IV needle is ripped away. From the thorns of the roses, I think wildly, watching the red drops fan across the hospital bed. He’s here. He’s here.

I can’t figure out the metal rails. They are up, trapping me on the bed. I shove at them desperately, trying to force them down. When that fails, I scramble to the end of the mattress and jump, bare feet hitting the cold floor, hospital gown flapping loosely as I bolt for the open door.

Gotta run. Where, where, where?

I make it out to the broad hallway. It’s too vast, overexposed. Anyone can see me. As if on cue, a nurse down the hall shouts out a warning.

Run. He is coming. Or maybe he’s already here.

I flee, mindless, oblivious, fueled by instinct. My feet hurt, my ribs, my chest. I don’t care. Nothing is more important than my desire for flight. I want a closet. Someplace small and dark. Like an animal retreating to its den. A closet could save me.

I hear footsteps pounding behind me, then more voices, joined in alarm.

I skitter around the corner, and he’s standing there.

“Nicky,” Thomas says.

He spreads his arms, blocking my path. His face is expressionless. I can make out nothing but his dark eyes, boring into mine.

“He’s here,” I state wildly.

“Shhh,” my husband replies.

“No, no, I have to run. I have to get away. Vero says so.”

Something flickers in his gaze. For a second, it’s almost as if he believes me. Then:

“Listen to the sound of my voice, Nicky. Just focus. My voice. Talking to you. My voice, calming you.”

“I have to get out of here!”

“Focus. One thing. My voice. All that you hear. All that matters. One thing, Nicky. Focus on my voice. The rest will go away.”

I don’t want to focus. I’m upright, swaying on my feet, and my ribs are too tight and I can’t catch my breath and there’s a skeleton in my head and maggots on my arms and doesn’t he know the rosebush is still bleeding and I failed her. So many times, so many ways. Over and over I go back to her. And over and over again, I fail.

I’m tired. Suddenly. Absolutely. I don’t think I can stand anymore.

“Everything is all right,” Thomas murmurs. “Come on, honey. You must be cold. Let’s tuck you back in bed.”