Chapter 48
Blood On My Hands
Run. My mother’s voice in my ear.
I jerked awake. I swear I could feel her breath still tingling on my ear. My heart clenched. “Mom,” I breathed.
Weak moonlight fluttered through the curtains. I stared into the dark, expecting to see my mother, but there was nothing other than the shady outline of the room.
I rolled my legs to the floor, clutching my face in my hands.
Was it real? Did she tell me to run because of the smoke or the man?
She had stared at the man’s legs and was terrified.
Was he someone she had put away hellbent on revenge?
He might be out there, walking around, enjoying life, after he ripped my mother from her life.
I should call my father and tell him what I remember.
If she was murdered, he’d want to hunt her killer down.
I stared at the phone on the coffee table.
But what if it was all just a vivid dream and not some long-lost memory?
What if she told me to run because of the smoke and the man came to help?
What if my father hung up on me? After all, the last words he said to me were, “Get the fuck out!”
For long moments, the thoughts circled in my head.
I picked up my phone. It was a burner and couldn’t be tracked. But I knew his number off by heart. One of the benefits of a photographic memory.
The phone rang, clattering my nerves. What if he—
“Clemet speaking.” His voice gruff, deep, impatient. I could hear the television in the background. The football was on; I probably interrupted him watching the Cowboys.
“Dad?” I rasped over the hot coal in my neck. “It’s me.”
“Amy?” he said, softer now. Okay, okay he didn’t sound pissed. Relief eased the pressure in my chest. “Where are you?”
“Portland.”
“Are you alright? What the fuck are you doing in Portland? I thought you were in Church Heights. Are you safe?”
He knew where I moved to. Typical detective. He probably had my old phone traced. If he had bothered, it meant he cared. Emotion swelled in my throat. I didn’t realize how much I wanted him to care. Needed him to.
I took a moment to respond. “I’m fine, I …” I should tell him, but the words refused to fall out, refused to break the moment where he seemed … happy to hear from me. “How are you?”
“I’m alright, girl.” There was a long, awkward pause.
“How’s Neri?”
“Good, you know, good.” He sighed. “She’s working as a beautician.”
“That’s good.”
“No, it’s a shit career move, but you girls never fucking listen.”
Laughter huffed from my mouth. My heart started beating faster and clenched at the same time. I needed to tell him softly, gently, ease into it. “Dad, I, I don’t know, I—”
“What is it?” He sounded concerned. “What’s happened?”
“The accident.”
He stopped breathing. There was nothing but silence. Nothing but doubt pressing down on my heart.
“I think Mom was murdered.” More silence. Just the sound of my heart booming in my ears. “I remember, at least I think I remember,” I rushed out, breathless. “I think it was real, she told me to run, Dad, she—”
“Amy, stop.” He sucked in a heavy breath. “Just stop.” Now he sounded tired. Broken.
He thought I was making it up, like the visions of Shadow Man in my bedroom I’d wake screaming to, visions that were nothing more than nightmares filtering into the real world.
My father thought I was unhinged. Tears stung my eyes. “I’m not crazy.”
Crazy Amy. That’s what some kids called me at school once when a cheerleader wearing a bright-pink scarf thought she could bully me. I ended up using that scarf to choke her until someone pulled me off. I also ended up in the principal’s office, with a two-day suspension.
I waited for him to say I know you’re not, Amy. I needed him to believe me, or at least ask some questions so I could tell if it was real.
More silence screamed through the phone. He thinks I’m crazy. My head was spinning wildly. Nothing made sense. But the hands clasping my wrists, spreading my arms, clasping my ankles, spreading my legs—they made sense.
The pain in my heart was like a fire burning.
“Am—”
Too late. My fingers trembled as I hung up the phone, cutting him off.
I tore from the house into the night. Blood pounding. Feet pounding. I ran into the forest, hurled myself through the maze of tree limbs and low-lying shrubs. Branches whipped at my face, tearing shreds from my arms. I kept running, mindless to the physical pain.
I leapt over a fallen log and skidded around a large gray boulder. The damp air enhanced the scent of earth and pine trees.
Like the hand.
I couldn’t draw enough breath. I sucked at the air, but my throat was a pinhole.
The world began to blur, my foot scraped against something hard, and the earth rushed up to my face.
The fall jolted my teeth, and I tasted blood where I bit my tongue.
Rocks scrambled beneath my weight and ripped skin from my palms. I slid over the edge of a bank.
I stopped fighting, I just let myself slide, tumble, crash.
Then I lay on the cold earth, breathless and broken, pitiful sounds of distress wheezing from my mouth.
Finally, I pushed myself up onto my knees, clenching my teeth, biting down the urge to scream. The vision of his aged hand on my thigh landed in my mind and I lost the battle.
My scream shattered the forest, startling nearby resting birds. They took to the sky with loud, shrill squawks. A branch snapped as a terrified animal took flight, the gallop of deer hooves beating against the forest floor.
I was burning amongst the decaying tomb of children thrown to heinous underworlds.
Burning amongst the betrayal of people who claimed to be my own, people that had left a child in the hands of a monster.
My birthmother, my biological father, the witches.
I didn’t remember lying down, but I was back on the ground, curled up in a ball, crying.
Crying until there were no tears left. Then I just stayed there, my heart burning and burning and burning.
Time swallowed itself. I didn’t know how long I lay there. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. But I stayed until the cold sank into my bones, chattering my teeth, and I either had to move or freeze to death.
Drained, I sat up. My legs shook as I hauled myself to my feet.
My blister-clad feet. These shoes were not made for running.
I held out my palms, watching as blood trickled down, splattering to the floor.
I curled my hands into fists, and I made a vow to God, to the universe, to whatever, or whoever, was listening.
When I found out who had hurt me, and if anyone had hurt my mother, there would be more blood on my hands.