Page 19 of Butterfly

A chill crawls down my neck. “Don’t you have security cameras around the finish line?”

Throwing me another sideways glance, she types on the keyboard for enough time to make my blood boil. “Come here and see if you can spot the woman.”

I walk around the desk and lean closer to the pair of screens. She speeds the footage up a bit. Charles crosses the finish line. Other celebrities. Vance talking with Emily. Martin, one of the producers, is riding a horse. “No, I can’t see her.”

The woman holds up a hand. “Wait a moment; there’s more. These cameras activate when there’s movement. Sometimes, the footage ends up in a hidden folder or the bin if its size is small.” She opens a series of folders nested one inside the other. I can barely follow her. “There.” She shows me a few short videos taken from other angles, but no Sienna.

My chest constricts. “Something is wrong. Maybe she fell somewhere. We must send a search party. Search the forest. It’s getting dark.”

The tight line of her lips doesn’t show any mercy. “Sir, the fact she isn’t at the finish line doesn’t mean that something horrible happened. Lots of people simply get tired and leave the trail to return home. Her phone might be switched off, and her injury isn’t life threatening.”

No, but this woman didn’t see Sienna panicking and sprinting off.

I press my knuckles on the desk. “I’m going to search for her.” If Sienna’s phone can’t connect, then she’s still in the forest.

She lets out a huff and glances at the screen. “That’s your choice, Mr Knightley. I think you’re overreacting. I’ll try calling her again and see what happens, but for now, I don’t think the situation is as dramatic as you’re picturing it.”

Fine. I don’t want to stay here, doing nothing when something can be done. Without a word, I stomp out of the tent and head for the forest again.

Six

Sienna

BLOOD ON MY hands. Blood. He’s coming for me. His footsteps are getting closer.Little whore. His voice echoes in my mind. He’s coming.

No, no, no. He’s dead. I’m safe. The blood isn’t from my back. He didn’t hit me. He didn’t cut me. He’s dead. I killed him.

Shivers run through my body as I rock back and forth, hugging my knees. My bottom is damp, and the fabric of my trousers clings to my skin. The scent of mushrooms and wet soil teases my nostrils. I’m not in his house. I’m somewhere—a twig snaps, and I jolt.

He’s coming for me. I ran away, but he’ll find me. He’ll cut me.

No! He’s dead. It’s not him. I’m in a forest. Alone.

Back and forth. I’m alone. I dig my fingers into the flesh of my arms. Harder. The pain sharpens my sight, but my breathing is uneven. Raspy noises croak out of my throat. Thirst makes my tongue heavy. I’m alone. No one is coming for me. Not him.

I press my forehead to my knees and take deep breaths. The fragrances of the forest cleanse the tension in my throat. Breathe. I can do this. I can control the fear.

My lips and cheek throb. It’s a thump-thump that sends a shot of pain behind my eyes, although I’ve endured worse. Alex. He was with me. He didn’t hit me that hard. I’ve seen worse. It’s my over-sensitive body that is spreading pain throughout me. Phantom pain. It’s not real. I overreacted.

I put a hand on my cheek. Alex. I fled from him for no reason. He must think I’m mad. The spasms jolting my muscles slow and die down, leaving a cold sweat in their wake. I rub my goosebumped arms. The trees in front of me come into focus as I blink. What time is it? I gaze around. Long shadows crawl over the rocks and the moss. An orange light filters through the leaves. Another quiver darts through me. Chilly gusts swish past me. I must leave. I’ll freeze here.

On unsteady legs, I pick myself up and stagger towards the track. At least I think that’s the right direction. But I left a trail of bent ferns and broken stems when I barged through the vegetation. My feet are heavy. I trip on a rock and slam against the ground. Tears burn my eyes as I stay there. Get up. I always get up. My body is sore even though I didn’t complete the whole loop. I give myself a moment before I stagger to my feet again. Dusk is creeping through the trees when I find the trail. Dozens of footprints mark the soft soil. Owls cry from the tree branches. I loiter, catching my breath, before stepping onto the path.

Hugging myself, I walk downhill. I don’t bother stopping at the finish line. The side path around the car park will lead me to the B & B where I have my room. Distant voices reach me. Lights flicker in the thickening darkness. I don’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. God, I’m thirsty. My throat burns.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when footsteps pad closer. I rush to hide behind a tree and wait for a group of people to trek past me. They talk and say something, but I don’t care to understand them. My chest heaves with hard pants that leave me shivering again. No, I don’t need these people’s help. I don’t need anyone’s help. That’s the only thing my foster father got right.No one wants to help you. His words repeat in my mind.You’re on your own.

I just want to go to my room and lie down. I avoid the crowd and make my way towards the village.

I want to forget. I want to sleep. Wash the blood and dirt from my body. I stumble again and drop to my knees.

I always get up.

Seven

Sienna

London, three months later

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