The air in him whooshed out. His body folded over the arm holding him. As if he were a ragdoll, he was yanked back up again, only to have a meaty fist slammed into his face.
Tears, fat and quick, spilled over, slipping down my cheeks and dripping off my chin and jaw.
“You didn’t think you could hide forever, did you?” the man with hair said, punching my father again.
The bald man let him go. His body crumpled to the floor in a sad heap. I couldn’t just sit here! I couldn’t just hide in this tiny hole and watch him.
Slap! Kick! Groan.
“Hiding is useless. Crone always gets his man.”
“Please,” my father said, spitting out blood. “I’ll do anything.”
I started to move, to try and wedge myself out from between the walls. As if sensing what I was about to do, my father surged to his knees, blood dripping down his face, and stared toward the hole as if he knew I was watching.
A very slight shake of his head made me go still.
The man with no hair pulled out a gun, making a show of screwing on a long-barreled silencer. Obviously, it was just a way to prolong what he planned to do. Obviously, these men weren’t worried about being heard. They’d already shot through the wall.
“Any last words?” the man with hair intoned.
My father stared at the wall. A single tear slid down his cheek, mixing with his blood. “Tell my daughter I love her.”
Both men stepped back. My father glanced up.
A bullet from each gun fired.
The sound of the metal slapping into my father’s body was something I would never forget. Blood splattered on the wall behind him. His body fell over motionless.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I bit down on my fist until the unmistakable tang of blood filled my mouth. I kept biting, kept staring through that tiny hole at my father’s body as life pooled out.
I shook so hard I pretty much vibrated. My mouth was so dry it was an effort to peel my tongue up to swallow. I felt my own blood coat the back of my throat, but in that moment, it didn’t feel like my blood I was swallowing.
It felt like his.
I sat there while the men dumped the contents of his duffle bag all over the mattress. I sat there while they made a joke about the way he soiled his pants in death. My eye stayed glued to the hole as the man with hair hit a button on his cell and spoke.
“Tell Crone it’s done,” he ordered, gruff.
When he was done, the bald man walked into the bathroom and took a piss. The sound of him relieving himself was almost too much. Black spots swam before my eyes, and the room around me spun.
“Let’s get some lunch,” one said.
I sat in the tiny space long after they’d gone. My body shook and trembled for so long I honestly thought it was a permanent state.
My father’s eyes were open, still staring at the wall. Still watching, making sure I was hidden.
When I finally crawled out of the wall, I stood over his body, staring down as his blood seeped into my shoes and clung to the soles.
Glancing over to the heap of his upturned bag, my eyes landed on a photo. The edges were worn, and one side was ripped.
Bending down, I picked it up. The image blurred, dimmed, and then came back into focus. I didn’t notice the blood on my hands where I’d bitten myself or the crescent marks on the opposite palm from my fingernails.
It was a picture of a memory. Of a younger man standing in the snow, his daughter smiling beside him.
That was the best time of my life.
Clutching the photo to my chest, I stared back down at my father, and finally, I started to scream.
Bellamy
One year later…
I stayed late at work because I love my job. I stayed late at work because I had nothing better to do. I mean, really, trying to tell myself that lie was laughable. So laughable in fact that it made me snort even as I tried to convince myself it was even half true.
There was no point. If I couldn’t be honest inside my own head, then I probably should have climbed out of that wall that day and died right then with my father.
Harsh.
Sometimes the truth was harsh. But wasn’t the truth better than lie after lie? I would know. I lived one every single day.
Correction: it wasn’t a lie. It was a new me.
Or so I was trained over and over to believe. For the most part, it worked. Except on nights like tonight when I stayed late correlating files because thoughts of going home and staring at the empty walls of my apartment was excruciating. I wondered, not for the first time, if it would ever get any easier.
To cheer myself up, I stopped at a local grocery place on the corner near my apartment building. I didn’t stop here much, though the place was amazing. It was expensive, but beyond that, it made me homesick. Because of that, it probably should have been the first place to avoid tonight as all these thoughts whirled around inside me. It stood to reason, though, that maybe if this place could make me homesick, perhaps it could also make me feel closer to what I missed.
At the very least, I could get a nice bottle of wine.
Wandering up and down the aisles of the little grocery, I breathed in the various scents mingling in the air. Fresh herbs, produce, and the heady aroma of baking baguettes.
I took in a deep breath and exhaled. Some of the tension and restlessness inside me eased.
Tucking the basket into the crook of my arm, I continued on, pausing to glance at the jarred sauces and selection of oils. A tingle of excitement and inspiration swirled inside, leaving my chest a little fluttery. The need to create something that burst across the tongue was almost irresistible.
After indulging in my thoughts for a few moments, I choose a few fresh herbs, some tomatoes that smelled delish, some garlic, and a few other light ingredients. Once those were in my basket, I selected a fresh baguette, still warm.
Fresh bruschetta would go very nicely with the wine I planned on drinking tonight.
Perusing the wine selection, a tingle of something brushed over the back of my neck. Almost as if someone opened a window or the door and some of the wintry air floated in. I was nowhere near the door, though. And there was no window over here.
Glancing around, nothing appeared amiss, so I continued. As I was pulling out the bottle I chose, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I turned, staring down the aisle, as a man disappeared around the corner.
My stomach tightened and prickles of warning—the same kind I’d only ever had once before—assaulted me. Adrenaline flooded my system so fast that everything in the basket began to rattle with the shaking of my body.
Forcing a deep breath, I walked toward the cashier, forcing my steps to be unhurried and casual. All I really wanted to do was run.
Run and scream.
That familiar clawing sensation in the back of my esophagus started, and I cleared my throat, trying to push it away.
After paying for my items and giving the cashier a tight-lipped smile, I used the cold air as an excuse to hunch down into my coat and hurry to my car.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel until I pulled into the parking garage past the security gate. It wasn’t much, really, but having that little drop-down arm that required a pass to park inside was better than nothing.
I might have pressed on the close doors button inside the elevator a few thousand times as I anxiously stared out into the garage. And I might have nearly tripped rushing down the hall to my door and sagged against it once I was safely inside.
The relief didn’t last very long, though.
Instead, my head shot up and I stared down the small hallway that lead into the rest of the apartment. Suspicion and anxiety with adrenaline was a dangerous combination. Shoving away from the door, I went into my place, flicking on every light along the way. After depositing my groceries and purse on the counter, I checked the rest of the apartment, something that wasn’t really unfamiliar to me.
Once that was d
one, I double-checked the closet, then finally took off my coat and sighed.
I was being silly.
I was.
There was no way anyone had found me. I’d done everything right. Taken every precaution. I was safe.
Then why don’t I feel like it?
I poured myself a big glass of wine and unpacked the groceries I’d bought. After about half the glass, I began to feel a little looser. I decided what I needed to do was take a hot shower, put on something comfy, and then make the bruschetta. I could have another overly full glass of wine and watch a sappy romance movie on TV.
Once I was showered, blond hair pulled up on top of my head, and a pair of loose, comfy sweats covered my legs, I carried the empty glass of wine to the kitchen and began cooking.
I’d barely begun when that feeling slinked back over me again.
Dropping the knife, I gripped the edges of the counter and squeezed, watching the way my fingers turned white from the pressure. Beneath my ribs, my heart galloped and an intense urge to flee knocked me back.
Thinking it would make me feel better, I went to the closet nearest the front door and looked inside at the duffle bag sitting on the top shelf, packed.
I wasn’t sure what it said about me that it was there, but whatever it was didn’t stop me from having it.
After forcing a few deep breaths, I started to push the door closed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I let out a low squeal and jumped back, pressing a hand to my chest.
Someone was at the door, knocking. No one ever came to the door.
Creeping forward, I looked through the peephole.
A man in a dark-brown uniform with the yellow logo of a delivery company stood on the other side. His head was tilted down, so I couldn’t see his face, only the hat. In his arms was a brown box.
I wasn’t expecting any delivery. In fact, I never shopped online. I never did anything online. It was too risky.
“Yes?” I called through the door.
“Delivery!”
“I’m not expecting anything.” I watched through the peephole as the man tugged the box out and glanced down at it.
“Bella Lane?” he called out. “Apartment twelve?”
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Then this one’s for you.”
I hesitated, not saying anything. That feeling was back. And this time, I didn’t want to try and fight it. “Just leave it by the door,” I called out. I’d get it after he’d gone.
“I need you to sign for it.”
Don’t open that door!
The scent of sautéing tomatoes that were close to burning wafted down the small hallway.
“I’m not able to answer. If you can’t leave it, just take it to the store and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
His head remained down, but his shoulders stiffened. “It will only take a second.”
I backed away from the door, creeping as though if I made even the slightest sound, he would know.
He knocked again. I tossed my hand out to steady myself on the wall.
Something was wrong. If you feel like something is wrong, it probably is.
Backtracking into the room, I fetched my cell out of my purse and dialed 9-1-1 on the screen. Heart pounding, I stood between the kitchen and the hallway, clutching the phone, staring at the door.
Please go away. Please.
Suddenly, I was back there squished between the walls of my father’s shitty apartment. The smell of fear and sweat clung to the inside of my nose, and the sounds of flesh hitting flesh made me shake.
“All right, then,” the delivery man yelled. “I’m leaving!”
I let out a breath, but I still trembled all over.
I was still too afraid to move, so I stood there for a long time, just staring at the door and listening for something. Anything.
I thought to go check the window, to see if perhaps the mail truck had driven away, but I couldn’t get my feet to work.
A faint sound hit me like the boom of a gun. I jerked, and my eyes flew back to the door.
I watched in horror as the deadbolt, which was locked, turned slowly… until it stopped.
Unlocked.
The front door creaked like a bad horror film when the man, who was clearly not a delivery man, shoved it open. He filled the doorway in his brown uniform. His head lifted just as slowly as the door had swung in.
“I have your package,” he intoned. The box was dropped, and beneath it in his hand was a gun.
A gun with a silencer on the end.
I screamed and lunged to the side falling into the kitchen. The sound of a shot going off and the bullet burying in the wall was something I was unfortunately familiar with.
In my haste to leap away, my cell slipped out of my hand and slid nearly under the stove. With a cry, I lunged forward, my knees slapping against the floor. My fingers closed around it, but as I pulled it close, the man appeared, shoving me back into the corner of the cabinets.
He pointed the gun. His eyes were empty and void.
Adrenaline surged in me again, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached up over my head and grabbed the pan I’d been using on the stove. I flung it at the man, and he screamed.
Hot oil, vegetables, and the pan itself smacked him in the face. He screamed as though he was burned, batted the pan away, then began trying to brush off the burning food.
I scrambled away, ran down the hallway, and opened the closet door. My hand closed around the duffle as he came at me. I swung, using the back like a battering ram, and hit him in the face. He fell to the side into the wall with a curse. I yanked open the apartment door behind me and ran. Instead of the elevator, I rushed down the stairs. I heard him not far behind, his footsteps pounding closer. Thinking fast, I ducked into the maintenance room just before the door leading out to the parking garage.
Trembling behind the oversized equipment, I heard him rush by.
“She headed toward you!” he said and burst out into the garage.
The second my heart stopped thundering, I knew I couldn’t just sit here. I couldn’t wait for him to come back. Sneaking out of the room, I went in the opposite direction, looping through the hall until I came to a door that led out on a different street.
Pulling my hood up over my head, I ducked onto the sidewalk and carried the duffle like an oversized shoulder bag.
A cab pulled to the curb up ahead. A laughing couple stepped out.
I ran for it, sliding into the backseat before the door was even closed. The cabby glanced up, surprise written over his face.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Just drive.”
He pulled out into traffic, went down the street, and turned the corner. “I’m gonna need an address, lady.”
My first thought was the police station. They would know what to do. They had the resources to keep me safe. I opened my mouth to give the address of the precinct. I knew it by heart.
Something stopped me.
A cold feeling wormed around inside me.
Going to the police was what I was supposed to do. It’s what I did last time.
And now I was here.
They’d promised me protection. They’d sworn I was safe. My new identity, my new life… it was all perfectly calculated so the men who killed my father couldn’t find me.
They lied.
The fake delivery man with a gun back there was proof.
I had been found.
Everything I’d done was for nothing.
Witness protection couldn’t protect me. I’d given them a chance. They failed.
Now it was up to me.
Liam
The sound of the whistle cut through the frosty air. The shiny metal fell from my lips and skidded over my coat to land midway down my chest, stopped by the blue chord it was attached to.
Everyone glanced up, and I clapped. “Wrap it up!” I bellowed, a puff of white air bursting out wi
th my words. “Good class today. I’ll see you all on the slopes.”
A couple of people skied off toward the lifts, and a few began taking off some of their gear.
It only took a second for me to unlatch the board from my feet, bend down, and pick it up. I was so used to doing it I could do it in my sleep.
Walking toward the rack and for my clipboard, I paused when someone called my name from behind.
“Liam?”
I glanced around as a snow bunny in pink came forward, wobbling on the bulky boots and half dragging the snowboard along with her.
“What can I do you for you, Ms.—”
“Heather,” she said, cutting me off. It was a good thing, too, because I didn’t know her name. God only knew what would have come out of my mouth.
“Heather,” I said and smiled.
She tripped, and the board fell onto the snow and skidded away as she pitched forward.
“Whoa,” I said and caught her, easily juggling my board and her body. I noticed the way she pressed close a second. Hell, I even let her do it before I steadied her on her own two feet. “Careful there. You almost got a face full of powder.”
She giggled and adjusted the goggles on her head. “Thanks.”
After a minute of her saying nothing at all and me just standing there waiting around like a dumbass, I cleared my throat. “Was there something you needed?”
“Oh!” she said, her cheeks turning pinker than they already were. “I was wondering if you had any last-minute tips for me? How did I do in the lesson?”
My eyes dragged over her, starting at her boots and landing at her face. She had long, blond hair that hung out of her cap and over her shoulders. It was slightly damp and slightly wavy from the snow. It reminded me of someone.
Of the past.
Keeping my eyes trained on her face, I replied, “You did good today, for a beginner.” Then I smiled.
She giggled.
“Just remember to keep your eyes up and not down at the board. Your body will follow your eyes, okay?”
She nodded.
“Cool.” I started to turn, and I felt her follow.
I wanted to groan. Usually, I was all good with the attention from the ladies. But not right now. Not from her.
Avalanche (BearPaw Resort Book 1) Page 2