Page 15 of Betrayed
A place that seems to have endured for centuries and intends to last even longer.
The kind of place where everyone knows your past.
Reaching into my bag, I grab the red, shoulder-length wig Cass wore last New Year’s Eve and place it on my head. I can’t risk anyone finding out I’m back.
I’m already the underdog in this fight. I’m counting on the element of surprise.
I keep my hood up and my head down. I slip on my dark Chanel sunglasses as I pass the inn, the post office, and the butcher’s. I avoid eye contact with the few locals brave enough to face the wind.
They might not recognize me anyway.
The last time they saw me, I was a ghost of a girl. Pale and silent, eyes hollow from grief, flinching at every sound.
They thought it was the loss of my mother.
And it was, but they didn’t know it was also my sister’s husband who put me in that shell.
But here I am, pulling a suitcase behind me through the cold air, wind hitting my face, with the scarf around my neck the only thing protecting me from the memories I promised I'd never revisit.
Lucian bought me the scarf, the coat, and the waterproof boots that are already gathering mud.
I told myself I wouldn’t bring anything he bought me out of respect for him and as penance for leaving.
But I wore all of it.
Because part of me still wants his protection. His scent. His warmth.
I want him near. I feel braver when I feel close to him.
And it’s damn cold in this hellhole.
I’m not going to the farm we grew up on. There are too many nosy neighbors, and the risk of Caleb finding me is too high. Instead, I make my way to the moors.
There we have a primitive cabin, one that has been in my mother’s family for generations.She’d bring Cass and me here sometimes, when Dad was in the worst of his downward declineof alcohol addiction, which always seemed to land on our summer holidays, when we were home from school.
It was hard as a child not to link the fact that you were around more when your father felt he had to drink himself to death.
Mum would light a fire, light candles, and help us build a tent from blankets in the living room. She would say we were on a wonderful holiday, an adventure, us and nature. After mum died, we didn’t come again for a long time.
The cabin was ours, it was special, our piece of our mother. I don’t think Cass would have told Caleb about this place.
I hope I’m right.
The open, treeless expanse of the moors feels vast and almost desolate, with the sky stretching endlessly above, heavy with clouds. Finally, the cabin appears, its crooked silhouette against the horizon. A single chimney pierces the gray sky. When we left, the tank in the back still had gas, so the stove should work, but I brought matches for the wood and kindling outside, just in case.
I stomp along the half-mud, half-gravel road leading to the front door. I still have the key. I unlock the door with numb fingers and step inside.
It smells like dust and old wood, as if time has forgotten this place and left it behind. The windows are covered with spider webs. The fireplace is cold. The kitchen floors and counters are coated with a thick layer of dust.
Perfect.
I drop my bag on the floor and take it all in.
This is where I thought it ended when we left.
Now I know better. This is where the end begins.
I light a fire first.
