Run Rabbit Run (Blood and Burrows Dark Romance Duet #1)
Chapter 1
RUE
I stare at the Moccasin Cove sign, wondering if the new, updated number includes the dead bodies at the bottom of the lake—or if those are officially marked off the list after a few months.
Honestly, it could go either way and I wouldn’t be surprised.
Pursing my lips, I press my foot against the accelerator, pushing my SUV a little harder past the eerie reminder.
These tires have never felt the winding gravel and shitty asphalt roads around the lake.
The surrealness of navigating them now has the acid and watery iced coffee in my stomach curdling.
It’s just for a few weeks. Then I can go back to Los Angeles.
I don’t have to be seen by anyone in town. No one has to know I’m here.
My heart thumps an extra beat as the rising sun glints against my windshield in a way that purely blinds me—which is exactly why I don’t see the shadow of a man stepping out into the road until it’s almost too late.
Holy shit!
I slam the brakes, my heel colliding with the floorboard as the tires squeal and I suck in a breath so sharp it makes my chest hurt. The car comes to a screeching halt, and I squint through the glare to process the figure looming just in front of my bumper.
What the hell? Did he not see me?
A mixture of irritation and shock floods my system, but I find myself feeling uneasy as I take in the tall, broad-shouldered man in a black hoodie standing in the road. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take this sort of thing with a grain of salt.
No, he looks like the type to swing a tire iron at me for it.
I brace my back against the seat and hold my breath, my hands sweating against the heated steering wheel. The man appears to be frozen in place, and I keep my eyes narrowed, doing my best to make out even the smallest of movements.
Maybe he’ll just murder me.
I bite into my lower lip at the intrusive thought. There’s something about this town that causes my mind to run straight to violence. Well, and my body, too.
But let’s not go there.
I keep my eyes locked on the presumable human I almost just man-slaughtered still blocking my path. His body is angled far enough from me that I can’t see his face, and I begin to wonder if he’s contemplating his next move.
Or maybe just tweaking on meth.
Just another charming trait of this place. I peel my fingers from the steering wheel, and move them to the horn, hovering over it as my heart skips yet another beat. It has a tendency to do that—something that started years ago and has never quite righted itself.
Gently, I place my hand against the plastic, and press, the horn blaring into the silence of the early morning. The sound is jarring, enough that the man visibility winces, and then darts off into the woods on the opposite side of the road.
Well… That was fucking weird.
I shake my head, the messy bun on the top of my head bouncing in a way that reminds me I haven’t slept a minute of the last twenty-four hours it took to arrive. I should’ve flown, but the odds of a car crash are greater than an airplane falling from the sky.
And I was hoping to maybe benefit from that statistic.
Oh, to be so lucky. I let out a sigh, and find the gas pedal again, easing my car forward.
My eyes drift to the thick woods to my right, where the man disappeared.
There’s no trace of him amongst the bare branches and poor camouflage of winter.
Moccasin Cove has a way of swallowing people like that…
Then driving them mad.
My mind flashes to a darkness I haven’t experienced in years, but I shudder and shake it off before the sick feeling can return to my stomach. The best coping method to deal with regret is to just fucking forget and pretend it never happened.
Sometimes, I actually convince myself of that, too.
The next two miles of twists and turns pass without incident, though the creep in the black hoodie remains front and center in my brain for some unknown reason. Something about him seemed familiar, but that’s probably because he is.
I know just about everyone in this town.
And I’m certain they still know me.
You don’t forget the girl whose beloved boyfriend was murdered. They found his body afloat in the ghostly waters of the lake, a Water Moccasin resting on his bloated chest full of stab wounds.
That I may—or may not—have been responsible for.
“Don’t go there,” I warn myself as I take the turn-off to my childhood home. The car rattles over the washed-out section of road as I weave through the trees, red dirt mixing with what little gravel remains.
There are two sides to this lake: the one cleared for tourists and the one that’s overgrown and uninhabited. The latter is where my late father built our cabin, preferring to be away from people. I used to not understand that sentiment, but now…
I understand more than ever.
My lungs expand as I take a deep breath and make the final turn into the long driveway. The two-story cabin looms in the distance, and what was once a manicured lawn with a couple of large pine trees is now an overgrown mess of weeds and briars.
I frown at the sight, the wooded siding of the house faded and warped from neglect. My presence sets off the howl of Bullet, my mom’s old Beagle, who sits on the decrepit front porch beside a wilted potted rose bush.
Welcome to the House of Horrors.
I pull in behind my mom’s old Dodge pickup and put the car in park. I flip the visor down, feeling the need to wipe the sweat from my brow. However, as I meet my jade irises, there’s no sweat on my skin. I just feel like there is.
Swallowing the nerves that follow that realization, I pop it back into place and reach for my backpack resting in the passenger seat. I drag it across the console onto my lap and grab my phone from the console. I hit the unlock button, and sigh.
Of course, there’s no service here.
I roll my eyes and shove it into the side pocket, deeming it useless. I reach for the handle of the car, and kick it open with my converse, startling as I’m met with the obnoxious pant of Bullet.
“I don’t know how you’re still alive,” I tell him, my tone warm as I take in the white around his eyes. “It’s been like, what? Fourteen years since I brought you home?”
His white-tipped tail wags obnoxiously as he jumps up, placing his paws against my black jeans. I’d have given anything to take him with me, but my mother insisted he’d never make it in a city like Los Angeles.
I give him a good scratch behind the ears and then slide the rest of the way out, my feet colliding with the grass mixed with gravel. “I guess Mr. Wilson doesn't help Mom with the yard anymore??”
Bullet tilts his head at me, like the suggestion is completely foreign. I shrug it off and wince at the weight of my bag. My shoulders and back ache from a long stretch of driving and no sleep.
I use my heel to kick the driver’s side door shut, and take a moment to breathe in the heavy, musty scent of pine and stagnant lake water. I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightens, and a gurgled groan erupts in my ears.
No, no, no…
I don’t have to let the memories creep back in just because I’m here.
My eyes fly back open, and I swallow the rising bile.
I clear my throat and head for the front door.
The yard is even worse up close, and I make it my focus to distract me from the memories threatening to pull me under.
The chipped steps give to my weight as I ascend to the porch, glancing back at my beige Pathfinder.
I could just leave now.
But Bullet drags my gaze back as he whines and bounces along beside me, as if my homecoming is somehow a good thing. I once read that dogs can’t remember specific details of events, only how they made them feel.
I guess that’s why he still likes me, despite seeing the worst day of my life.
A shiver rolls down my spine as my mind flashes to the red stains on his white fur, and how my father vigorously scrubbed them, desperate to rid Bullet of the evidence of witnessed violence. My head swirls, and suddenly, I feel like I’m back inside the nightmares it took years to rid myself of.
Bullet spins in circles as I reach for the knob, unsurprised to see it’s unlocked. After all, this is the kind of place they say you can leave your door open, and the only thing you have to worry about is the wildlife.
Though I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
I push the door inward, and blink as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cabin. It’s less chaotic than the yard, but still stale and musty inside. Bullet prances in beside me, as I scan the clutter, searching for any signs of life.
“Rue!” A voice erupts from the back room, and I notice the wave of dread that settles in my gut. “That better be you in this house!”
“Yep,” I choke out, still clinging to my backpack strap as I make my way across the small living room and through the hallway. The walls are still adorned with family pictures of the four of us, though I’d hardly consider us much of a family these days.
I’ve barely spoken to my sister in nearly a decade.
And I can’t blame her for that—or the way she ignores my mom’s calls.
She got the hell out just like me; but unlike me, she doesn’t owe a single person in this town a thing.
My eyes shift away from the photos as I reach the main bedroom, the door ajar.
I press it inward, my eyes landing on my mother sitting in a wheelchair.
She has a splint up to her right knee, and her left arm is in a cast. Her gray hair hangs loosely to her shoulders, and as she turns her head toward me, the fatigue is evident.
As is her annoyance.
“You said you’d be here around six-thirty,” she snaps, her dark brows furrowing. “I had to get out of the bed and into this wheelchair on my own.”
“I’m sorry.” I swallow the urge to defend myself. She’s just upset because she’s injured and doesn’t have my dad to help her. It’s not personal.
But it sure as hell feels personal.
“Just help me get to the kitchen,” she says, her sigh lingering in the silence between us as she meets my eyes. “I’m glad you’re home, Rue. Really, I am.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, good to see you in person.”
“Hmm,” is all my mother says as I make my way to the wheelchair. I grab the handles and guide it toward the hallway, trying to steady myself as the fatigue suddenly pulls at my eyelids like a weight.
I really need a nap, but clearly that’s not happening.
The wheelchair bumps over the transitional piece as we enter into the kitchen and I situate the chair so she can look out across the unfenced backyard, rather than watching me try to operate the forty-year-old coffee pot that should’ve been replaced two decades ago.
As I fill the pot with water, I startle sideways, Bullet letting out a sudden eerie bay, straight out of the Hounds of Baskerville. I whip my head around to see the beagle sitting at the threshold of the open front door, his attention on the wooded area beyond.
Did I forget to shut the front door? Seriously?
I turn the water off and set the pot down, moving toward the door. “Does he do that often?” I ask my mom as I rush across the house.
“No,” she calls out, just as I reach the threshold. “He does not.”
I stare out into the tree line, my heart in my throat as Bullet keeps barking, his attention still focused out there on something I can’t see or hear…
Or someone.
I swallow hard, reminding myself there’s only technically two people who might want to hurt me. One is dead. The other is in prison—and has no idea who I am.
But I still close the door and flip the lock.
Just for safe measure.