Remember Me (11 page)

Another squeeze of unease. This is too easy. Something's up. I wait another beat, listening for any sounds coming from inside or out. There's nothing. So why do I feel watched?

I stare hard into the trees behind me, look carefully to either side. Nothing. I'm alone and paranoid.

Screw it. I'm going. I shove the window farther open and slide through, hitting the carpet with both feet. Again, there's nothing. The house is completely quiet.

Get in. Get out. Get in. Get out.
I cross the room and crack the door. The hallway is empty. I edge forward, glance around. The Bays' upstairs is open to the downstairs, and from my position in the upper hallway, I can easily see the floor below. Kitchen looks clear . . . living room directly below looks clear . . . I ease to the handrail, craning over the side to peer down at the keypad near the front door. No flashing lights.

It's not on.
I dash for the stairs, feet soundless on the thick carpeting. Down the first five, turn on the landing, down another five. Wait.

Still nothing.

I take a deep breath and hustle across the main living room. Thanks to the party, I know exactly which door off the hallway to pick. The handle turns noiselessly in my hand and I'm in.

Bay's study. It smells like orange cleanser and polished wood. The curtains are drawn and it takes me a moment to locate his BlackBerry charging station in the shadows. It's tucked to one side of the cherrywood desk, power cord neatly fed through a small hole in the desk's shiny top. Turning the charger upside down, I pop off the cradle's bottom, then by pushing the charging pins out, I am able to slide the sniffer in, attaching the charging pins to the back of it. Now, whenever Bay puts his phone on charge, the phone will connect with the sniffer and I'll get a direct feed of his texts, emails, and pictures.

Resecuring the bottom, I replace the charging station, wipe my fingerprints, and glance around the room. It's really tempting to do a little digging.
Really
tempting.

Until I hear a thump.

It's so muffled I almost miss it, but my heart rides right into my throat, and for a terrible moment, I'm frozen.

Get out. Get. Out.
I fling myself at the study door, peer outside. Nothing. I'm just spazzing. There's a good reason I stay on the other side of the computer. I can't handle this stress. Time to blow this Popsicle stand.

I'm easing my way up the last steps when I hear it again. Another thump.

Slowly, I turn, see a shadow slide past one of the open doors farther down the hallway.

I am not alone.

11

I spin around, running for the window and trying to be quiet. I'm just not quiet enough. It's not that I hear someone behind me.

I just somehow know he's there.

My heart is behind my teeth now, but I have just enough brain cells left to ease the window down with sleeve-covered hands and run for it.

Or, rather, slide for it.

I push my way down the roof until my feet are dangling off the side, twist, and grab onto the rose trellis. Then I scramble. My feet hit the ground and, just as they do, I hear the window above scrape open.

I freeze, shoulders pressed against the siding. Whoever was down the hallway is now above me on the roof. I can't run the way I came because it would take me directly across the yard. I'd be seen. Can't stay here though. I can't—my eyes latch onto the woods. That'll work. I'll run for the woods. If I go around the side of the house, I can reach the trees. They'll provide coverage.

Hopefully.

I take off, coming around the side of the house at a dead run. Behind me, the rose trellis shakes and something heavy hits the ground.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I speed up, running past the end of the Bays' house and straight into the surrounding woods. I keep a good pace as I push farther in. The underbrush isn't very thick and the ground is soft from the recent rains, muffling the slap of my Chucks. I veer to the right—need to get closer to the road—and duck behind a fallen tree, curling myself into a tight ball. I wait, listening. At first, it's quiet.

Then come the footsteps.

They're steady, but farther off, like the person went straight when I went right. I press myself into the dirt, willing my breathing to slow. No good. Fear is mixing with exertion and I can't get enough air. I cover my mouth with both hands and the movement turns my head just enough to see the wedge of space between the standing trunk and the fallen tree.

There's someone coming through the afternoon-darkened trees.

It's a man. He's moving quickly, head casting from side to side like he's looking for something he lost.

He's looking for me.
I press closer to the ground even as he draws farther away. I can't make out his face. He's tallish . . . with baggy clothes . . . and . . . crap. The shadows make it almost impossible to gauge anything definite.

Who is he?

Not Ian. Not the judge. Who else would want to be in that house besides me?

My skin goes cold. The killer.

No. Why would he come back? I flatten myself into the dirt, waiting. He walks left, then right, then disappears behind a thicket of trees. I fling myself upright and run for it. The road shouldn't be much farther. If I can get that far, I can reach my car. I'm out of here.

And then the ground gives way.

I pitch forward, sliding, sliding. My shoulder crams into one rock and my head glances off another. Light flashes behind my eyes as the force spins me around. I end up half buried under a mound of dirt.

Get up. Get up.
I thrash, spilling more dirt. Somehow I've fallen into a ditch and the ground is crumbly from all the rain. I can't get traction until—
finally
—my feet hit rock and I push myself up, wiping dirt from my eyes. My fingers come away wet, bloody.

This isn't a ditch. It's a giant sinkhole. I'm at least eight feet below the surface, my legs partially buried in the soft, dark dirt. The ground behind me feels firmer and, somehow, the ground above me is intact, curving over me like a roof.

I wiggle. Something pokes me in the side. Shit. I reach around, knowing even before I touch my cell that I've crushed it. The screen is deeply cracked and it won't power on. So much for calling for help. I'll need to dig myself out, but there's too much dirt on my legs. I can't move, and this time, it isn't footsteps that alert me he's close. It's the way the birds go silent.

A shadow casts across the hole. He's standing above me, looking down, and I go utterly still. I can't tell if he can see me. My lower body is completely buried. The rest of me?

I press into the dirt wall. Maybe with the overhang, I'm okay. Unless he comes around the other side of the hole; then I
know
he'll spot me. I won't be able to get away.

I wait. He waits. Small clumps of dirt drop from above, and for a single, hysterical second, I think he's going to fall through the overhang and land on top of me. Then his fingers close around the edge of the hole. They curl into the dirt so I can see the pink tips and I know he's leaning in.

He's coming in for a closer look.
I bite my tongue, taste mud. More dirt clumps fall and then his fingers pull away. He's moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He's pacing.

Then he stops. Something cracks and I jerk. There's a rustling, dragging sound. Ragged shadows arc across the hole's opening and a large branch lands across my buried legs.

Panic surges through me. What the hell is he doing?

He begins to whistle. Another crack. Another branch.

Why's he covering up the hole?

Crack. Branch.

Holy shit, he's going to bury me alive.

I swallow, dirt coating my tongue.
Get a grip. He's not burying you. He's covering you. He's hiding the hole. Why? Because I'm in it? Can't be. He doesn't realize I'm here.

The whistling—light, tuneless—recedes again and I start working my legs up and down, pushing at the dirt with my sneakers. I can't let myself get pinned like this. Maybe if I ball up, I'll have a better chance of getting my feet under me and shoving my way out.

I wiggle harder. My left knee pops loose, punches through the mud. I draw it close and keep working at my right leg. It's so far under all that dirt. I don't know how—

Another branch lands on me and I stifle a whimper.

Only maybe I didn't stifle it enough because he pauses. The long shadow slides across the hole again and I press one hand against my mouth, convinced he can hear my breathing. That's when I notice how the mud's been smeared.

By dragging my leg to me, I left a long line in the dirt. Did he notice?

Waiting. Waiting.

He moves. The shadows retreat and I heave my right leg out, pull my knees under my chin, and tuck myself into a ball.

Another branch. He starts pacing again . . . stops . . . retreats.

Leaves.

His footsteps recede and I exhale hard, waiting for him to be far enough away that he won't hear me crashing through the tree branches. A minute passes. Another. The sun's lowering in the west, inching me into darkness. I should wait—

Screw it.

I kick my feet under me and start pushing. The limbs snag on everything—my hair, my clothes. I shield my eyes with a forearm and the branches dig into my skin until there's blood.

I keep pushing—even more freaked now than I was in the house. Why would he cover a hole? Surely if he knew I was in there . . . I swallow hard. I don't want to think about that. But I know something's wrong.

And, somehow, I know he'll be back.

I balance both feet on the lowest branch and push up. A branch claws my stomach, ripping my T-shirt, and I manage to scramble a little higher. The ragged ledge is almost within reach. If only my freaking phone worked!

I brace my feet on a branch's bend. One foot slips and I flail, clawing both hands into the soft earthen walls. My fingers catch and I drag myself higher, vowing I'll drive straight to Carson's. He's off tonight. He should be there.

Except . . . shit. My
car
. I left it by the road. What if someone reports it? That would place me in the local area of the crime.

Worse, what if
he
finds it? If he found out who it was registered to . . . I shudder, forcing my hands to dig deeper into the dirt. I hit something hard.

Tree root?
It curls around my fingers and I jerk back, exposing the long, delicate bones of a hand.

12

Vomit surges into my mouth.
That's what he was covering up? A
body
?

I kick harder, powering onto the forest floor in jerks; then, crouching, I press both hands onto my knees and try to catch my breath. In. Out. In. Out.

A fucking body!

I push to my feet and take off at a dead run. Even so, it still takes me almost twenty minutes to reach my car. I keep stopping, leaning against trees to listen. Nothing. No one's following me. I'm alone.

Or maybe not.

Because when I break through the woods and emerge on the street, someone's already been there. My car is still parked up on the curb, but there's a line of footprints—orangey-red and heading out of the woods—leading to the driver's door.

They're the same color as my filthy fists and clothes.

I take a few steps closer, tell myself that, possibly, this doesn't matter. When it rains in Georgia, everything turns orange-red. It's from all the clay. Maybe it's someone out for a walk, a jogger cutting through.

Then comes the low, lilting whistle and my heart rams into my throat.

He's
close
.

And that's when I notice how the footprints don't go past the car. They go around it. They circle the vehicle and walk back to the woods.

He checked my license plate.

He's going to figure out who I am.

 

I drive straight
to a gas station—ignore the attendant's stares—and buy a GoPhone, dialing Carson's cell from memory. He doesn't pick up.

I sit on the curb next to my car and try again. Still doesn't answer. He probably doesn't recognize the number. He's waiting for a voice mail that I'm never going to leave. Too risky.

Kind of like staying here. I scan the gas station's parking lot again. Empty. So why do I still feel exposed?

Maybe it's the head injury. I've had so many by now I'm going to end up stupid. My left eye is swollen, but still open enough for me to realize my vision's gone funny, blurry. I probably shouldn't be driving.

I dial Carson's cell again and get his voice mail. While I'm listening to his message, I count the bubbles of light drifting in the corner of my vision. Six. Six is a nice number.

Or not.

I disconnect and lurch to my feet, bracing one shaking hand against the Mini's hood. Good. I haven't passed out or started screaming.

Now where to?

Home. I angle myself into the car and start the ignition. I need to get home and check the security system and locks.

What if he's already there?

I shift the car back into park and redial Carson. This time, he answers on the second ring.

“
What?
Who is this?”

“It's me.”

“Why the hell are you calling—”

“I need you to get to Judge Bay's house.” I lean my head against the steering wheel and close both eyes so the bubbles disappear. “I just found a body.”

 

I hang up
with Carson and go straight home, check the alarm system, check the locks, check the windows.

Everything looks good.

It makes me smile until I realize of course they would look good. If he slipped unnoticed into the Bays' house, why should our place be any different?

The thought makes tears prick my eyes.