Page 141 of The Art of Us by Symone

THIRTY-SIX

Pain rattles my head as I regain consciousness.

It’s a struggle to push up from the rug. In an instant, everything rushes back.

Startled awake by noise, came downstairs to check, and got whacked at the back of my head.

“Kayla!” I scurry from the living room, gripping the doorway at an onslaught of dizziness.

“Kayla!” I yell again, staggering across the foyer to the other rooms before going upstairs to check.

Panic sinks in. She’s not here.

Whoever knocked me out, took her.

I hurry back downstairs, intending to search the guest house. The front door opens as I reach the bottom step.

Dad enters with Britney.

Their expressions turn grim.

“Call the police,” I yell before rushing past them out the door.

“What happened?” Dad yells at my back.

“Hurry!” I shout over my shoulder. “Someone took Kayla.”

“What?” Britney shrieks, following me down the stone path to the guest house.

Our steps come to an abrupt halt at the note posted to the sliding door.

“You betrayed me,” Britney reads aloud. “Come find your little artist.” She snaps her head to me, eyes enlarged with horror.

My heart and head pound wildly from further confirmation when I glimpse the blueberry muffin by the door.

“Fuck!” I peel back towards the house.

“Bran, what’s going on?” Britney pleads, gasping for air as she chases me. “Who has Kayla?”

Dad’s still standing outside. When he sees us turn the corner, he starts to say, “The police are—”

“Annalise!” I bark in anger. “Tell me she’s still there.”

My sister’s uneven breaths convince me she’s just as anxious. “It can’t be…” Her voice is a frightened murmur.

“Of course, she is,” Dad insists. “That lunatic is never leaving—”

“Just check,” I implore, nodding to his phone in his hand. “We need to make sure.”

Dad scrolls through his contacts before pressing the phone to his ear. “Yes, this is Michael Decker. Put Dr. Klein on. Hurry.” He pauses a moment while I’m anxiously shifting from one leg to the other. “Yes, doctor, I’m calling about Anna—” He stops, eyes expanding in shock. “What? Better? Why the hell didn’t you notify us?” He grunts and hangs up, then roughly drags his hand through his hair.

“Dad, what did they say?” Britney urges.

“She’s here,” I mutter. “Isn’t she?”

Dad splays his hand. “Annalise was released from the facility three months ago. They said she was better. No longer talking about Brandon, and was receptive to treatment.”

I sputter a cynical laugh in dismay, wondering how I could end up so unfortunate in life. I grate my hand down my face and shout like a madman, “Fuck!” My voice booms in the night.

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