Page 62 of Wicked Dreams

That was horrible. I stood frozen, the empty paper cup in my hands. I wanted to scream and chase after him, but I was stuck. Every muscle locked up.

Someone else approached me. A woman. Not the first lady—this one had kinder eyes. She squatted next to me and introduced herself. When she offered her hand, I took it. And that, really, was the beginning of the end.

She was the emergency social worker brought on scene to take custody of me. From there, I was transferred into Ms. McCaw’s caseload.

“Why’d he bring you here of all places?”

“It was our spot.” There are no fowl in the mostly dead pond now. No ducks to scare away. Frogs, sure. They keep croaking and making themselves known. I pick up a rock and lob it at the water, and everything goes silent.

Caleb frowns. “Your home was?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “That house was neverour home. It was yours. Always.”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“Every inch of that property was yours.” I stare out at the water. It’s different but the same—kind of like us. Or maybe just me. I’ve been wilting and dying with neglect for years with no recourse. “We vanished like smoke. Did you even realize we were gone?”

“Did Irealize?” His jaw tics. “How could I not realize, Margo? You ruined my life.”

I jump to my feet, fighting against a cringe. Fighting againstguilt. He thinks I hurt his life so badly? He got to stay here?—

“Run and hide like you always do,” he bites out.

Running sounds like a great plan. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I can’t stand here and take his beratement. I pivot and burst into a sprint, running back over the hill toward where Caleb parked his car.

He catches me like he always does. His arms bind around my chest, and he stops short of flinging me to the grass. As soon as his arms drop, I put space between us.

This is crazy.

Why thefuckdid I get in his car?

“You cannot run from me.” He points in my face. “You can’t hide. And you will fucking pay for what you’ve done.”

My lip trembles. How do I focus on the hate when the most prominent feeling is terror?

“I don’t know what I did,” I tell him. “How am I supposed to make that right? If I don’tknow?—”

One hand covers my mouth, the other lands on my shoulder. His gaze is wilder than I’ve ever seen it. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shutup,you lying whore.” He shakes me for good measure, a jostle of my body against his.

Shut up, you lying whore. Those words—I’ve heard them, but not at me. And not out of Caleb’s mouth.

“Like father, like son?” I say against his palm.

He glowers. “Don’t you dare speak about my father.”

I won’t speak at all with the way he’s gripping my face.

“I was almost starting to like you again,” he mutters. “And then—” There’s an awful glint in his eyes. He’s dangerous. Based on past behaviors, maybe worse than a demon.

He’s the fucking Devil.

Shoving him away, I sprint up the running path. I don’t have a phone, and the moon is covered in clouds. I’m flying blind, but I trust my memory. I make it to the curve in the path. My tennis shoes slide a bit, but I push onward.

Fear holds my body in a vise: squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

His footsteps pound the ground behind me.

He’s taller than me, he’s in shape. It comes as no surprise when his fingers catch my hair. I ignore it and pour on another dose of speed, but it’s too late. He tackles me from behind.

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