Visions (Cainsville #2)(86)

With the gun in my right hand, I reached out my left and touched the water. As I scooped petals, my fingers brushed something under the surface. I stumbled back, but fingers grabbed my wrist. A shape shot up from the filthy water. The bloated corpse of a dark-haired woman. Her mouth opened, a horrible, twisted, swollen mouth, skin sloughing off, teeth hanging loose.

“Your fault,” she said. “All yours.”

I wrenched away and my hand came free, her skin still clinging to it, as if I’d yanked the bloated flesh from her bones. I fell back, hitting the floor, a scream clogged in my throat, looking up to see—

I was alone in an empty room.

I stuffed my gun in my pocket, and without thinking I pulled out something else. The boar’s tusk. I gripped it tight and pushed to my feet and looked into the tub. It was empty. I reached down to see if the sides were wet. As I did, I realized I was still clutching something in my left hand. I opened it and a trio of damp poppy petals fell into the dry tub. I stared at them. Then I picked them up, fingers rubbing the petals to reassure myself they were real. I put them into my pocket and continued on.

The next room was a lavatory, with a row of toilets along one wall. Only low walls divided them, and if there had ever been doors, I couldn’t see any remnants of them.

I checked each stall as I moved through the room. Only when I reached the last did I notice writing on the opposite wall. Three words. Written in foot-high block letters.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I swallowed and rubbed my arms. I tried to pull my gaze away, but it kept returning to those words, somehow more haunting than any that had come before.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I didn’t understand. Not any of it. Not the ravens, not the owls, not the hallucinations and the poppies, not even what the hell I was doing here, walking through an abandoned psychiatric hospital, clutching a gun and a boar’s tusk. Part of me wanted to just stop and scream, “I don’t understand!” and demand that the universe reply. That it give me answers. It wouldn’t. Those were up to me.

As I pulled my gaze from the words, a shadow darted past the next doorway. I dashed to it just in time to see a figure run into yet another room in this labyrinth of decay.

I raced in to find the next room empty, with no sign of what it had been used for. According to the directions, the door to Macy was on my left. The figure had darted through the door to my right. I went right. I told myself I chose that because it might have been Macy, but I knew it wasn’t. Someone else was here.

I jogged through that doorway and through another, following the dark figure. Then I stopped short. I was in an empty room with only one entrance. The door slapped shut behind me.

I swung my gun on the figure standing by the now-closed door. It was the guy I’d caught trying to break into Ricky’s apartment.

“Oh.” He looked at the gun, a faint smile on his lips. “Does that mean you’d like to leave?” He opened the door. “By all means. Go rescue the girl. We don’t really need to talk.”

I stayed where I was, my gun trained on him.

He laughed. “That’s what I thought. Poor Macy. You aren’t here for her at all, are you? You’re here to find out why Ciara Conway died. Why her body turned up in your car. Why I would use Macy to lure you in. Those answers are far, far more important than Macy herself, aren’t they?”

“If I shoot, will you get to the point faster?”

“Hmm, no, sadly. It will be mildly inconvenient, but it won’t hurt me. I think you know that.”

“How would I?”

“How indeed. Aren’t you wondering how I got past your lover?”

I stiffened, my gaze swinging to the door.

“Oh, he’s fine. In fact, go ahead and text him to make sure. I wouldn’t suggest mentioning I’m here. If he comes to your rescue, I’ll have to leave. Better if he just keeps watching that building.”

I texted Ricky. He replied: All clear.

“See?” the man said. “He can take care of himself. All his kind can.”

He knew Ricky was a biker, then. How much else did he know about him? Even the thought made me anxious.

“You needn’t worry about the boy,” he said. “I know better than to hurt him. His family would retaliate, and they are more than I care to tackle.”

“They are.”

“Do you even know who I’m talking about?”

“The Saints. Ricky’s gang.”

He smiled. “Ah, yes. The bikers. Definitely not enemies one wishes to make.” He looked around. “What do you think of this place? Does it look familiar?”

“Actually, yes, I remember staying here . . . despite the fact it’s probably been closed since before I was born.” I glowered at him. “I don’t know what you’re playing at—”

“Memory,” he said. “I’m playing at memory, Eden Olivia. Prodding and pushing. You may have never stayed here, but you have relatives who did. Sad cases, really. The perils of mixing blood that was never meant to be mixed. There is so much that can go wrong. Just ask your parents. Or Seanna Walsh. Or Ciara Conway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t tell you. Too many ramifications. But I can poke at your memory. Inherited memory. If I prod enough, you will question, and if you question, you will find the answers and you will see exactly where you stand. On quicksand. Two sides offer you ropes. The two halves to your whole. Mortal enemies. Both want you. Both promise safe ground to stand on. Both lie.”