Page 31

FOURTEEN

F allon

My lungs burn with each desperate breath.

We’ve been running for what feels like hours, the forest floor a tangle of roots and shrubs determined to trip us up.

Mila stumbles again, her small hand clutching mine so tight my fingers are going numb.

Anya trails just behind. They’re exhausted.

I’m exhausted. We can’t afford to stop. Not until—there.

Through the trees. A shape so familiar it makes my heart stutter, and after spending all afternoon searching for the place, I realize I never really thought I would find it. Grandma’s cabin.

I halt so suddenly that Anya crashes into my back. The setting sun throws long fingers of light through the branches. My legs turn to concrete.

“Fallon?” Anya whispers, her voice barely audible over the hammering in my chest.

I swallow hard. “We’re here.”

The cabin appears through the trees like a ghost I forgot still haunted me.

I nearly collapse when I move toward it—same rotting steps, same cracked windows, same peeling paint on the door frame that my grandmother used to touch like a prayer before going inside.

Years gone, and nothing’s changed. Even the crooked mailbox still stands, its red flag permanently raised as if signaling distress to anyone who might pass by.

Not that anyone ever did. This place is hidden from any roads, deep in the forest.

We approach the cabin cautiously, my gaze scanning the perimeter for any sign we’ve been followed. The forest around us has gone quiet, as if holding its breath. Only our footsteps on the brittle pine needles from trees overgrowing the driveway break the silence.

I don’t even check the handle, I just kick it in. The door crashes open, the sound thundering in the quiet night. Dust and old wood fill my lungs, and I stumble inside with Anya’s hand in mine and Mila pressed against my side. The floorboards groan beneath us and I stop, peering around.

It’s dark. Cold. The air smells stale. I fumble along the wall, muscle memory guiding my fingers to where the light switch should be. Click. Nothing. Of course. No power. Just us and whatever memories this place still holds to try to choke me.

My eyes adjust slowly to the gloom. The furniture huddles beneath yellowed sheets. Cobwebs drape from the ceiling beams. A mouse scurries across the floor, disappearing into a crack in the baseboard.

And suddenly it’s too familiar. The smell, musty wood and mold fill the air.

The creak of the floorboard by the stove, the one that always gave me away when I tried to sneak food.

The shadows swallowing the corners where I used to imagine monsters waited, only to learn later that the real monsters wore human faces of those supposed to protect you.

I blink once, twice, and I’m not here anymore. I’m nine years old again, and Emma’s crying beside me in her bassinet. Grandma’s voice rises like thunder from the kitchen—she’s on the phone, screaming at our father. Again. Always.

“Shh, shh, you have to be to quiet,” I whisper, rocking her bassinet as I push her bottle back into her mouth. She quiets which is another sound I dread. I hated the silence, yet it’s also what made her forget about our existence.

The closet door slams shut. Darkness. No air. No light. I wasn’t allowed to scream. Not in Grandma’s house. Not when she had that look in her eyes. The one that meant we were invisible, except when we weren’t, and then we were too visible, too loud, too much.

My chest tightens. My throat closes like someone’s shoved a fist down it.

I gasp for breath, that won’t come. The cabin walls pulse inward, closing in on me from all sides.

I hear the beeping. Emma’s hooked up to machines that keep her heart beating when it forgets to do it on its own.

Though she grows stronger sometimes, she still needs them.

I try to remind myself that Emma is now safe, that I’m not a little girl anymore and this is no longer home.

The panic doesn’t care about facts. It crushes me, nails digging into my palms, and I start to sink to the floor. No. No. No. Not now.

The room tilts and spins. My vision narrows to a pinprick, the edges black and frayed. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t feel anything except the terror clawing up my throat. My knees hit the floor, sending up a cloud of dust that only makes breathing harder.

Somewhere far away, I hear voices. Small voices. Scared voices.

“Fallon?”

“What’s happening to her?”

“Is she dying?”

I force my eyes open. Two blurry faces hover before me, eyes wide with fear. Mila’s bottom lip trembles. Anya clutches the backpack to her chest. The sight of them pulls me back to the present, just a little. Just enough to suck in a painful breath.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Mila says.

I touch my face. My fingers come away wet and red. I stare at the blood, confused. It doesn’t seem real. Nothing does. Not the cabin. Not the blood. Not the two terrified girls looking at me like I’m their only hope when I can barely remember how to breathe.

They are real. Their fear is real. And if I don’t pull myself together, we’re all dead.

“Fallon?” Anya whispers again. Her hand reaches out, hesitant, and touches my shoulder. The contact is electric, shocking me back into my body. “Are you okay?”

No. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since their father took me.

None of that matters now. What matters is getting these girls somewhere safe. What matters is staying alive long enough that Leone finds us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand. The blood is already drying, tacky against my skin. “I’m okay.”

They don’t believe me. I can see it in the way they glance at each other, a silent conversation passing between them, though they’ve only known me for a few weeks. Smart girls. Too smart to buy my bullshit.

I pull both girls into my arms. They stiffen at first—we’re not there yet, not at the place where my touch means safety instead of more uncertainty. After a moment, they soften against me, Mila’s arms snaking around my neck, Anya’s hand clutching the back of my shirt.

“I’m okay,” I lie again, the words muffled against Mila’s hair. “I just… this place has bad memories.”

“Like nightmares?” Mila whispers.

Worse. So much worse. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I squeeze them tighter.

“Yeah, like nightmares,” I say. “We’re safe here for now, though.”

Another lie. We’re not safe anywhere. Not as long as Mikhail is hunting us. The girls need something to hold onto, and right now, hope is the only currency I have left.

I pull back, brushing Mila’s tangled hair from her forehead. Her eyes, wide, search mine for the truth. I’ve never been good at hiding things—Leone always said my face gave away every card in my hand—for her, I try.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Anya asks, her voice steadier than I expect from a girl her age. “You looked… scared.”

I almost laugh. Scared doesn’t begin to cover it. I nod, forcing my lips into what I hope passes for a reassuring smile.

“I am now,” I say. “And we need to get this place secured before it gets completely dark.”

I rise slowly, steadying myself against the ancient wooden table.

My legs feel like they’re made of wet newspaper.

I move to the door, which hangs awkwardly from one hinge after my dramatic entrance.

I shut it as best I can and jam a chair under the knob.

It won’t hold for long if someone comes looking, but it’s something.

“Will that keep the bad men out?” Mila asks, her eyes fixed on the chair.

I want to tell her yes. I want to promise her that nothing bad will happen, that we’ll find Mom, that everything will be okay. I can’t bring myself to pile on more lies. Not when their lives depend on understanding exactly how much danger we’re in.

“It’ll slow them down,” I say instead. “And we’ll hear them coming.”

I survey the cabin, memories threatening to surface with every familiar detail.

“I need to hide you both,” I say, gaze scanning the room. “We don’t know if Igor followed us. Or if… Mom…”

The words nearly choke me; I can’t afford to cry. Not now. Not when tears might blind me to what’s coming.

“Mom?” Mila asks, her brow furrowing.

I chew my lip, realizing my slip. They don’t know about me yet. About my connection to this. To them. How could they? Until three weeks ago, I was just someone who was staying and visiting with them. Now I’m the only thing standing between these girls and the men who want me dead.

“Your mom,” I correct, not having time to explain when I hear the gravel outside crunching under tires. Fuck!

I move to the kitchen area, running my fingers along the worn countertop. The cabin is small—just three rooms plus the bathroom. Nowhere to hide, that wouldn’t be the first place someone would look. Except…

My eyes drift to the old bedroom as I hear cars pull up outside, lights coming inside through floral curtains.

“Come here,” I whisper, beckoning them over. “I have a place for you.”

I lead them to the closet, pulling open the door. The panel still moves when I press it, swinging inward to reveal a dark, cramped space beyond.

“You’ll be safe in here,” I tell them, gesturing for them to step inside. “No one will find you in here.”

Anya hesitates, looking from the dark space to me with suspicion in her eyes. “What about you?”

“I’ll be right outside,” I promise. “If someone comes, I need you both to stay quiet. Not a sound, no matter what you hear. You only come out when I say so. Not a second before, okay?”

Mila nods solemnly. Anya is already climbing in without complaint, pulling Mila after her. I hand Anya the backpack, then the flashlight I found while digging through her backpack when we needed a break in the forest. I flick the iton.

“Only use it if you have to,” I warn. “The battery won’t last long.”