Chapter 18
Chloe
“Wait here.”
Kolya slips into the twilight.
I shove myself against the side of Bree’s house, the vinyl siding cool against my back. He circles to the front, staying low behind Mrs. Peterson’s hydrangeas.
The blackness closes in around me, pressing against my skin, pervading my lungs.
I try to swallow the panic rising up my throat. Fear squeezes my chest, filling my stomach with stones.
I can’t believe I left Bree’s house, the only safe haven I’ve found since those crazy shooters chased us out of my home.
I shake my head and shift my bare feet, my toes sinking into dirt as I try not to squish the flowers.
Kolya prowls with terrible purpose, and I squint through the darkness, trying to track his shadow as it blends with others.
He halts at the edge of a driveway two houses down from Bree’s.
A pristine white Lexus gleams under the moonlight like a fat pearl.
Kolya bends down, reaches into a garden bed, and straightens with a rock clutched in his hand.
My stomach twists as understanding dawns.
He wouldn’t. He can’t.
With shocking force, he hurls the stone.
I stifle a scream, clapping my hand over my mouth as shattering glass explodes through the suburban quiet.
The crash reverberates between houses, impossibly loud in the night’s stillness.
I flinch, ducking lower as if I could somehow hide from the noise itself.
A car alarm screams to life, the piercing wail cutting through the darkness.
What the heck is he doing? Setting off car alarms again? He’s going to wake up the whole neighborhood.
But Kolya’s already moving, a dark shadow flowing through the night.
Two more houses down, we find a sleek black Mercedes parked in a driveway.
This time, he doesn’t bother with a rock and instead uses his elbow. The sharp, contained impact splinters the side window. The second car alarm joins the first, creating a shrieking, discordant symphony that causes my teeth to ache.
Lamps snap on in windows up and down the street. A porch light flickers to life. A door opens. A dog’s barked alert bounces between houses like a tennis ball nobody wants to catch.
The dark figures across the street melt away like ice in hot water.
The sedan lurking at the end of the cul-de-sac peels off, tires squealing against pavement as it heads toward the disturbances Kolya has deliberately created.
He’s drawing them away from Bree and me.
Kolya materializes so suddenly I have to muffle my scream.
His face is calm, with no hint of the chaos he’s unleashed reflected in his expression.
“Let’s go.” Grabbing my hand, he takes off in the opposite direction from before, away from the car alarms and the gathering neighbors and scary men.
I follow him through yards and side streets, skirting fences and more howling dogs. The world blurs into dark grass and darker shadows.
Adrenaline zips through my veins like liquid electricity, making everything sharper, brighter, faster.
I run.
My bare feet hit the ground with jarring impact. Each step blasts shockwaves up my legs. The sharp, persistent reality of sticks and stones numbs my soles. A twig scratches my heel, but I refuse to slow down. Why in the heck didn’t I ask Bree for a pair of her tennis shoes?
My lungs ache with every breath, the cool night air acid in my chest.
This isn’t a chase anymore. The men aren’t directly behind us, but they’re still out there, hunting.
And I’m the prey. I know I am.
Kolya drops back to lope beside me, a quiet, efficient machine. We move as one unit, my body instinctively responding to his cues. When he points to a low fence, I’m already scrambling over the wood, my muscles working on pure instinct.
I spot the treacherous gleam of a pool cover ahead and veer left, a silent warning he instantly heeds.
The yards start getting larger as we venture deeper into the subdivision. Bigger lots. More space between houses.
Elaborate landscaping.
The scent of chlorine and astroturf scald my nose.
McMansions loom before us, gray monstrosities with three- and four-car garages and pretentious columns.
Kolya jerks to a halt behind the largest column on the block.
The structure’s a fortress of taupe stucco and peaked rooflines, a monument to excess with its circular driveway and tacky fountain.
He gestures to a tiny basement window, barely visible above a row of forlorn rose bushes in desperate need of pruning. “We go in there.”
The words don’t register at first.
Break into someone’s house? A week ago, the mere suggestion would have prompted me to call the cops.
Now, it sounds like salvation. A place to hide while I figure out what the heck is happening to my life.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat once I recognize the property. “No way. This is Brenda Fucking Smith’s house.”
Kolya’s eyebrows rise slightly, the only change in his otherwise impassive expression. “You curse?”
“When it comes to Brenda, I do.” My lips twist in anger that I try to push aside. Now’s not the time or place.
“Who is she?” He remains on constant alert for threats as we chat about neighborhood drama.
“One of the school moms. A thirtysomething mean girl.” The answer tumbles out, fueled by pent-up frustration.
“She complained to the principal that my glitter projects were ‘fostering a disposable mindset.’ She also insists on sending in peanut butter cookies for her son’s birthdays, never mind that his classmate’s severely allergic.
Then she freaks out and insists we’re destroying her personal property when we refuse to distribute the treats. ”
The absurdity of running for my life while simultaneously complaining about a pushy parent slams into me. Like any of my old life matters.
The person I was this morning—Miss Chloe, the kindergarten teacher with her craft projects and lesson plans—is nothing more than a ghost.
Bone-deep exhaustion pummels me like a freight train. “She’s just mean. Like, really mean.”
“If you don’t get along, no one would think to look for you here.” Kolya approaches the window with silent purpose.
Look for me.
He knows this is about me too. But how?
Maybe I’ve been tied to this darkness since that night on the island fifteen years ago.
Like a bruise that never healed, that shadow has haunted me for over half my life.
But how does Kolya fit in?
Under Kolya’s expert pressure, the window latch submits with a slow groan. He slides through the narrow opening first, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the gap. Then he turns, holding out his hands for me from the darkness below.
I stare at those calloused, capable, dangerous hands that have hurt people but have also pleasured and protected me.
I hesitate, teetering on the edge of a treacherous precipice, pondering a decision much bigger than just climbing through a window.
Kolya’s mouth twitches. “Brenda Fucking Smith is about to be an unwilling hostess.” His tone’s tinged with both encouragement and amusement, along with uncharacteristic warmth.
A laugh escapes me, small and broken but real. I place my hands in his.
His fingers close around mine as he pulls me down into the depths.