Until the Day I Die(63)

“Ahhhhhh,” she says to the empty room. “Ah, yes.”

Okay, way past time to get the hell out of Dodge. She’ll probably see me, but maybe she’ll be so high she won’t think anything of it. What I really shouldn’t do is stay in here so when she pops in to pee, she gets a surprise. That would be disastrous.

I push open the door and step out of the bathroom, and she seems to regain her senses, widening her eyes and locking on to me like a laser beam.

“What are you doing in my room?” she asks in a quiet, formal tone.

I freeze. “My friend is in trouble. We saw . . . we saw one of the L’élu guides shoot a woman, and he shot at us too—”

“What the FUCK are you doing in my ROOM!” It’s a well-modulated shriek this time, and I bolt for the door. But a key has materialized in the hole below the elegant crystal doorknob, and the door is locked. I pull on it like an idiot until she grabs my ponytail and jerks me back to face her.

“Didn’t you hear what Antonia said?” she purrs.

“I—”

“She said take any room with an OPEN DOOR.” The expression on her face is withering. Disdain mixed with utter contempt. I find it overwhelmingly effective.

“I’m really sorry. I got separated from another group, an earlier group. I didn’t mean to . . .” I edge back toward the door. “I’ll just go.”

“This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.” She glances at the bathroom door. “Were you using the sink in my bathroom?”

I gawp at her.

“You better not have rubbed your filthy hands on my clean towels, you sorry-ass, piece-of-shit stalker!” She’s already unlocking the door to the hallway and flinging it open. Trippy music pours in. I try to duck out, but she blocks me with her arm.

“Antonia,” she yells into the hallway. “Antonia, there’s a stalker in my room!”

I pivot and head for the bathroom, bursting through the door and sliding across the marble-tiled floor. I focus on the window. If it was good enough for Jessalyn, it’s good enough for me.

“Stop,” the actress screams. “Get your ass back in here. Antonia! She’s getting away!”

I manage to squeeze myself out the window, let go of the ledge, and slam down on the awning over the window below. For a moment, my vision pops and goes blotchy. I can’t breathe, but I force myself to roll until my legs are dangling over the edge of the faded red canvas. I turn onto my stomach, then drop again, collapsing on the tile portico.

Above me, I hear the actress. She’s screaming. And then, from somewhere inside the house, I hear pounding boots and clacking heels. Someone’s coming—either Antonia or Lach or some other good-looking, deadly assassin-goon on her staff.

I stagger to my feet and limp toward the flight of polished limestone steps that lead down to the road. I don’t know if anyone’s coming after me, and at this point, I don’t give a shit. All I can think of is Jessalyn, alone in the forest, and that ridiculous, half-assed message I sent to Shorie.

Shorie, it’s Mom. Please se

Fantastic. Great work, Erin.

When I reach the bottom of all the stairs, I pause, turning one way, then another, trying to decide which way I should run. Should I try to get back to the campsite? It’s possible Lach might try to take Jessalyn there if that was where he was supposed to kill us. Only I have no idea how to get there from here.

I peer into the sun and try to think. The campsite, from what I remember, was back in the direction of Hidden Sands. There has to be a pretty clear trail leading to it, because someone delivered food from this house, and they probably used a four-wheeler to do it. If I could find that road or trail or whatever, I’d be golden.

Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. He will find me wherever I go . . .

It was something Perry used to say, when he and Shorie played hide-and-seek. She did this thing where she’d jump out at him before he found her and try to scare him instead. But that won’t work here. This isn’t a game. I grip my head in my hands and close my eyes. Just pick a direction, any direction, Erin. Find a road, a trail, a path. Anything. Just get away from this house.

I suddenly feel myself lifted up, then slammed back down to the ground. My right knee buckles, and pain shoots all the way down my leg. I try to scream, but it comes out a pathetic “Ahhh” as I feel the air forced out of my lungs. Stars on a purple background—flashes of white and yellow and black—wink across my vision, and I lose where I am for a couple of seconds. The ground tilts.

I scream again. Or at least I try to, but I don’t hear anything come out. Some time passes, I don’t know how long.

And then, “Get up, chickadee,” I hear someone whisper against my ear.





34

SHORIE

I wake up a little after eight. Dele’s sitting at her desk, peering into her fancy makeup mirror. She applies under-eye concealer like an artist, and I watch her for a while, soothed by her process. I’m also a little aggravated by the mess of bottles and tubes and compacts scattered all over her desk, but I try not to think about it.

In the reflection, Dele sees that I’m awake. She starts telling me about this girl in her Mass Media Law class who invited their study group over to her house, which, as it turns out according to Google Earth, happens to be a mansion on Lake Martin.