I need to go back and get help.
But what about Ellis?
Where did he end up?
As a giggle cackles from the shadows, I freeze. My heart is a screaming array of desperation as I struggle to breathe as quietly as possible. I want to call out to Ellis and Bailey again, but I worry if I do, whoever is out here, tormenting me, will be able to find me more easily. What will they do to me if they do? What is the point of all of this?
What if they’re the killer?—
A hand comes down on my mouth. I move to elbow the person, when Ellis whispers in my ear, “It’s just me. Don’t move, okay?” He waits for me to bob my head up and down before lowering his hand.
A quiet exhale eases from his lips as he carefully steps up beside me. The faint trace of the moonlight casts across his face as he places a finger to his lips, indicating for me to remain still and silent.
I do as he instructs, then he moves forward, taking vigilant steps. It’s then that I notice the gun he’s holding. The sight of it causes every muscle in my body to tighten. I watch, motionless, as he makes a path toward a tree.
The shuffle of footsteps causes Ellis to stop. As a figure rushes out from behind the tree, he raises his gun.
“Freeze!” he shouts, but the person keeps running.
Ellis curses and chases after them.
Me?
I don’t budge.
I can barely even think clearly.
Because I'm relatively certain the person who darted out from behind that tree was my aunt Marissa.
32
AVA
THE PAST…
It’s Saturday and I’m getting ready to hang out with Clover. We’ve been friends for a few months now, much to my mother’s dismay, something she reminds me of on a daily basis.
“You look ridiculous,” she tells me when I enter the kitchen. She eyes my outfit and shakes her head, returning to flipping the pancakes she’s cooking. “Go change. Now, Ava.”
“What I’m wearing is fine,” I reply, reaching for the car keys that are on the wall hook.
My outfit consists of torn jeans and a cropped T-shirt, along with an oversized green jacket and thick boots.
My father is sitting at the table with an array of camping gear spread out in front of him. He’s changing the batteries in a flashlight when he flits a glance at me. Anger flares in his eyes.
“Go change now. You look like you should be doing crack in an alleyway,” he grumbles before returning his attention to the flashlight.
I want to say: Maybe I am going to do crack in an alley.
I want to make them feel the same rage as I have since the day I ran out of the woods, and they locked me in the basement. But thinking these things and actually having the courage to say them aloud is an entirely different story.
So I choke the words down, like they’re my breakfast.
I turn and head for the stairway. I pause at the top of it, waiting for them to stop paying attention before I sneak out the front door without changing.
Snow has fallen overnight, and the mountains and fields are blanketed with a sheet of white. The car I drive to school is frozen, and patches of ice dot the road. The snow crunches under my boots as I wade through it and toward my car. I’ll have to let it warm up for a bit, which is going to suck since I’m not about to go back into the house.
Once I’ve got the engine started, I start the process of scraping the ice off the window. Without gloves on, my fingers turn blue rather quickly. But after freezing in the forest, standing outside for a few minutes in the cold is nothing.
