Chapter eight
Guilt is a prickly, violent beast that I share a more intimate relationship with than anyone else in my life.
The guilt is real.
I shouldn’t have allowed Oliver to leave with the demon-eyed man.
If he dies, it’s all my fault. Anxiety zips through my body, and I ping-pong about the cabin, dialing Oliver not once, but two times, only to be shot straight to his voicemail.
When he finally calls me, my relief morphs into anger, and I do that thing parents do when they finally hear from their delinquent children. “Where have you been?”
“On a snowy highway, with no service. It was treacherous.”
A breath rasps from my lips. The drive is over, and I dismiss any danger it represented for a more immediate concern. “Is the detective still with you?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t like him. Be careful with him.”
“You okay, Ember?”
“Yes. Stop asking me that. It’s you that needs to be okay.”
He laughs and does that flirty thing he does, and I sink into its familiarity like a warm, cozy blanket. We continue our banter, chatting until his plane is ready for takeoff and then again when he arrives home, sans Ryker.
That night, I lay in bed, and all I could see was the yellow of Ryker’s eyes and the pink keychain with JB engraved in the center.
I wake at six a.m. and begin whipping up a batch of cookies.
I found baking via a high school cooking class, and now it’s my nervous habit, even if I skip eating my creation and just feed someone else. I’m also quite skilled at ordering takeout, better than most, I’d venture to say.
Hours later, with hot cocoa and a delicious chocolate chip cookie on a plate in front of me, I sit at the dining room table, reading through some of the trial notes I’d been given on my client who’d dealt with a trauma event.
Her entire family died in a car accident, and she’d blamed herself even though someone else had run a red light.
They’d left ten minutes later than normal for the work and school routine because she’d slept in.
We sued the insurance company of the driver for a laundry list of items, including pain and suffering.
Reading through the testimony the psychologist gave, according to her, our brains get caught in a loop of self-blame and guilt.
I’m living that, I think, beating myself up for not seeing Jeremy as the monster he is in time to put him away for life.
I want to pace all over again, and I revert to my method of problem-solving.
I need to do something, take action.
I decide to actually write a book. Okay, attempt to write a book.
I’m determined to use my words to expose Jeremy as a killer who should never have walked free, no matter how the outcome paints me.
No matter what it does to my career. But if I’m smart, and if I do this right, I’ll give away nothing but offer up just enough to ensure people rethink Jeremy’s innocence.
Jeremy will never hide the monster he is behind his mousy, nervous persona ever again when I’m done with him.
And if he can’t hide, maybe he can’t kill again.
Instead of filling the page with my brilliant plan, I find myself googling “yellow eyes,” looking for any logical answers to both the yellow eyes I keep seeing and an explanation for pretty much everything that has happened and is happening to me.
“Vampire, werewolf, witch, demon,” I murmur, all of which are options that could apply to me or to those with the yellow eyes.
“Of course,” I mumble and take a bite of my cookie, my cellphone buzzing against the marble-top table.
Determined not to ignore Oliver, still worried about his contact with Ryker, I abandon my cookie on the plate and pick it up, frowning at the unknown number.
It’s probably a reporter, but Hulk does sometimes call me from unknown numbers, and I can’t risk missing vital information he might dig up.
I slide my thumb across the screen to answer, and before I can speak, a deep, unfamiliar male voice says, “Ember.”
The voice is remotely familiar, and my spine straightens. “Who is this?”
“Get out of the house, now,” he orders. “Run to the woods and stay there. I’ll find you when it’s safe.”
“What?” I gasp, pushing to my feet, adrenaline pulsing through me. “Who is this?”
“The man about to save your life. This is like a fire alarm. You don’t get a second chance to be stupid. Go now!” The line goes dead.
My mind races, blood pumping through my body and rushing to my head.
Those senses I’ve been feeling inside me say it’s true.
I’m in danger. I need to act and get out of this cabin.
I race toward the bedroom and yank open the closet door.
I pull out a backpack that belonged to my father, one he used when he hunted, and I know to contain a survival kit inside.
I run into the bathroom and grab my purse, which translates to money and credit cards inside.
I try to think about what else I need, but my brain won’t work.
It’s like those stories of people evacuating for a fire who can’t decide what to save, so they save nothing or something stupid like a pair of shoes.
I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and toss them in the pack.
It’s illogical, but I do it anyway. I might be running for my life, but at least I’ll have good breath.
My phone starts to ring again. I ignore it and grab my car keys off the nightstand. To hell with going to the woods. I have no idea who that was on the phone, and it’s an illogical move. I’ll drive away, I’ll just get the heck out of Dodge and go as far and fast as I can.
I race to the window by the front door and pull back the curtain, my heart lurching with the sight of not one but three dark sedans headed toward the cabin. Three! What is going on? My phone rings again. I answer this time.
“I said leave,” the same male voice growls at me. “Leave now, out the back door.” Once again, the line goes dead.
Right. Back door. Back door. Back door. I grab my jacket, pull it on, and run that direction, stuffing my phone inside my pocket.
I have no idea why I believe the man issuing orders and warnings is the good guy and the cars represent the bad guys, but instinct and my backpack are all I have going for me right now.
I’m reaching for the doorknob, seconds from escape, when ice rips down my spine and literally steals my breath.
Escape. I have to escape. I have to get out of here.
I fling the door open and stop dead in my tracks.
Jeremy is standing in front of me, and for a smart person, I’ve been stupid enough to leave my gun in the kitchen.