Page 49 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“Stop!” she screamed. “Reece! What are you doing?”

He could neither see nor hear her, and when she rushed at him, trying to seize the flaming pan from his grip, her blows passed through him, unnoticed. I can’t stop him, she realized with frustration and rage. I can’t do anything.

Whirling around, she ran into the dining room, the light of the fire behind her illuminating the smoky confines. Tate. She had to find Tate. Reece was burning the house down and she couldn’t escape the sickening sensation that he’d done something to Tate as well.

She frantically circled the dining room table and looked beneath it, finding nothing; she rushed to the parlor, stumbling toward the bookshelves, then fell to all fours in front of the fireplace to peer through the acrid smoke.

Crawling blindly over the Oriental carpet, she finally found him near the sofa, lying on his side, his eyes closed.

She called to him, but there was no response.

She tried to shake him, but her hands passed through him without effect.

When she glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, flames were already licking the dining room walls.

The thudding of her heartbeat had almost drowned out the roar of the fire when headlights flashed across the windows. Someone was coming up the drive.

Reece must have seen the headlights as well, because she heard the pan clank against the stovetop before he raced out of the kitchen toward the front door.

He hesitated only long enough to kick Tate’s inert form, satisfying himself that Tate was still unconscious.

As he flung open the front door, the flames in the house seemed to explode, filling the entirety of the dining room in an instant and reaching like tentacles into the parlor.

Slamming the door behind him, he darted down the porch steps.

Wren scrambled to the window just in time to see him disappear around the corner of the house.

The headlights were closing in fast, and Wren watched as a huge black SUV fishtailed to a stop in front of the house. A dark-haired man jumped out then staggered backward as he took in the inferno.

He reached for his phone and quickly punched in a number; a few seconds later, he pressed one finger to his ear, jamming the receiver against the other. He shouted into the phone while staring at the burning house with an expression of horror. He hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

“Tate! Are you in there?” she heard him yell.

Oscar.

Behind her, the heat was like an implacable wall, moving ever closer. On the floor, Tate didn’t move. Desperate, she pressed the length of her body against the parlor window. Look at me, Oscar, she begged. See me.

Slowly, Oscar turned to look up at the window. He froze.

Meeting his eyes, Wren mouthed, He’s here! Tate is here. Frantically, she began waving him in, gesturing at the floor behind her.

She watched in frustration as Oscar hesitated before swiping at his eyes in obvious disbelief. All around her, the house was creaking and crackling as if it were being devoured. Tate is here, she mouthed again, beckoning him toward her with increasing panic.

Through the glass, she finally saw something shift in Oscar’s face as he stared at her—comprehension dawning, then fear.

Galvanized, he ran up the porch steps. The front doorknob rattled in vain, and she cursed her inability to unlock it.

A moment later, she watched Oscar turn on his heel and sprint for the SUV.

As Oscar flung open the hatchback, pulling out a bulky child’s car seat, she saw Louise bolt out of the cottage.

For a moment Louise stood as if paralyzed, her mouth open in shock.

In the window, Wren shouted and waved her arms at Louise, hoping that the woman would somehow sense her entreaties to help Oscar.

Inexplicably, instead of racing to Oscar’s aid, Louise ran instead to Reece’s truck, climbing into the cab.

Lugging the car seat in his arms, Oscar had started for the porch, clearly intending to smash through the parlor window.

Wren’s confusion changed to horror as Reece’s truck roared to life and surged toward Oscar.

She saw Oscar look over his shoulder and catch sight of Louise behind the wheel, her expression deranged as she floored the accelerator.

The truck smashed into Oscar with a sickening thud, the car seat bouncing across the gravel.

It must have been a glancing blow because Oscar managed to get onto all fours and look up, squinting in shock at the taillights of the truck as it skidded to a stop.

He scrambled toward the corner of the house.

Before he could get there, the truck reoriented itself and accelerated in reverse, flinging Oscar’s body to the side like a broken toy.

· · ·

The fire was rapidly swallowing the house, one side nearly destroyed already.

Inside, the air was so blisteringly hot that when Wren squatted down next to him, she could see that Tate’s skin had begun to turn a dangerous shade of red.

A deafening roar erupted as part of the second floor collapsed into the kitchen.

Terrified, Wren crouched next to his body, shouting and screaming, but Tate showed no sign of waking. Had she not seen the slight rise and fall of his chest, she would have believed that he was already dead.

She could feel tears stream down her face as she leaned toward his ear.

“You have to get out of here,” she pleaded. “It’s not your time. Please. You have to hear me.”

Again, there was no response. Closing her eyes, she summoned every shred of willpower, concentrating like never before on a single impassioned wish.

“I love you, Tate,” she whispered, “and if you love me, you have to wake up now.”

Nothing happened.

On the verge of despair, she let out a broken sob…and, like a miracle, Tate began to cough, his eyes finally fluttering open.