Page 39 of Close Your Eyes and Count to 10

Around the bend, the small casita she’d found during her recon rose white and ghostly, nestled in foliage. She felt a measure of relief as she jogged up the path. It wasn’t the farthest one from the hotel, nor was it the biggest. But it was the one on highest ground, the only one intact.

Mom, when it rains, the lower part of the property will flood. This casita is high and dry.

That was the last piece of advice from her son.

She pushed through the door, stepped inside, and relished the blessed relief of being out of the rain. She was soaked through to the skin, her gear dripping. The rain beat on the roof, water leaking in from several holes in the ceiling, the scent of mold heavy in her sinuses.

She found the spot she’d staked out. A closet or crawl space where the door disappeared into the wall when it closed. Inside was the pack she’d left with supplies: water, some jerky, an extra light.

Her breath came easier; she settled into her space. She pulled her phone from her pocket, even knowing it was dead, staring at that black screen, willing it to life. Her only connection to her real life, the one she lived for Blake and Violet. For Miller, once. She’d sacrifice anything now to go back there. Had she really come here, risked everything—for money?

Those warnings. Who had been on the other side of those texts? Whoever it was, they were right.

She hardened herself. No tears. Sinking into sadness and fear was death.

Just breathe. Hide. Wait for morning or to be found. Win or lose. Just make it home.

She wrapped her arms around herself against the chill, shivering. She thought of home, dinner at the table with the kids, her cozy bed. She closed her eyes. Sometimes she would say to Violet,Be brave, be wild. Not wild like reckless or mindless. But wild as in untamed, connected to the strength of the natural world. Her heart rate slowed.

There. What was that sound?

She sat up, listening to the storm.

Was someone coming? Had they found her already?

A high-pitched cry.

Those birds again, always circling, always waiting for someone or something to die?

There it was again, connecting to every nerve in Adele’s body.

The very sound of terror. Someone screaming. Again. Again.

What was it? A trick. Something to lure her from her spot?

No, that was a sound that could not be faked. Someone was in mortal danger or terrible pain.

Adele didn’t have to think about it very long. She left her spot and started to run through the storm again in the direction of the sound.

11

ADELE

What was she doing here? She’d had this feeling before, a kind of vertiginous tilt to her perception. Once on her wedding day, when she’d stood at the altar with Miller, their friends and family—everyone she’d ever known in her life—watching, expectant. Smiles, happy tears, all eyes on Adele in a stunning silk confection from Paris upon which Miller had insisted, though it had literally cost more than her first car. On Miller’s side, there had been just a scattering of a family: a cousin from Duluth, an aunt and uncle from New Mexico, and the rest all friends and colleagues. She liked to think of them as the adoring hoards, people glamoured by Miller’s genius, his wealth, his magnetism. They came to each posh party and fundraiser, hanging on his every word. Wasn’t the wedding simply the most extravagant event he’d ever launched? And Miller. His wide grin, moist eyes, the way he looked at her, with such adoration.Who is he looking at?she remembered wondering.Who does he see?

Do you take this man?the Unitarian minister had asked.

And the world tilted.What am I doing here?

I do, she’d said, voice barely a whisper. The kiss, the cheers and rose petals, the drift down the aisle—it was like it was all happening to someone else.

Then on the day that Violet was born, a brutal natural childbirth had her experiencing altered states, not recognizing the sounds of her own anguished moaning. Then this little creature in her arms. Someone for whom she was totally responsible, expected to know things, to do right, protect, nurture.

Now a lifetime later, every illusion about love and parenthood shattered, here was that feeling again. A wobble, a tilt, like a glitch in the programming.

The retreating ATVs filled the air with a deafening swarm of sound, a powerful scent of fuel and burning rubber. Maverick, who Adele had only ever seen smiling for the camera, was bleeding from the mouth, his anger, his fear a palpable energy on the air.

This was not right.

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