Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I hung up with Ricky and sat on the couch, staring at my blank wall. All my walls were blank. And mauve. I’d wanted to paint them, to get rid of a lingering smell, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. Now that just seemed like one more failure. I’d broken it off with a great guy. I was unsatisfied with my dream job. Lost my cat. Hadn’t painted my walls. Also, I had forgotten to pick up a coffee to get me through my evening of research work. The last was a problem fixed by a ten-foot trek to the coffeemaker, but I was in a funk, and it seemed insurmountable.

My cell dinged with a text from Gabriel.

Skip the client files.

I’d barely finished reading that when a second came in.

Pamela priority. Then Ciara.

Ten seconds later.

Take time off if you need it. Will discuss Tuesday.

I slumped lower into the couch. Gabriel had apparently decided I was put off by the amount of work. I could call back and say, “It’s not the work. It’s you. I quit.” The perfect revenge. Toy with him until he dangled an offer I couldn’t refuse and then, just when he thought he’d snagged me and his schedule would ease, I’d quit. Mwa-ha-ha. Take that, you scoundrel.

Yeah.

There wasn’t even a moment’s pleasure in the thought. I didn’t want revenge. I didn’t want …

I didn’t want to hurt Gabriel.

There it was. Plain and simple, and stupid as hell. He’d hurt me. Shouldn’t I want some payback? Maybe not the immature scenario I’d just imagined, but at the very least I shouldn’t mind hurting him, if that’s what came of it.

Ninety minutes had passed since I’d left the office, and he was still trying to figure out why I hadn’t been my usual upbeat self. Still trying to make it right. I could say he really didn’t want to lose his new employee, and I’m sure it was partly that, but it was also …

I looked at those texts and I didn’t see Gabriel, hard-assed lawyer. I saw a boy whose mother had left when he was fifteen, who must have left so many times before that he never once considered the possibility she was dead, just presumed she’d abandoned him and went about his life as if that sort of thing happened. As if that’s what you should expect from people. They’d get tired of you. They’d decide you were more trouble than you were worth. And they’d leave.

I picked up the phone and texted back. That’s fine. Send more if you have it. See you Tuesday.

I sent the message, hauled my ass off the sofa, and changed for a run.

Normally I ran down Main Street. Tonight, I wasn’t feeling sociable, so I headed into the residential neighborhoods as I struggled to slough off my mood. Then, as I turned a corner, I glimpsed a streak of black fur tearing behind a hedge, and I stopped.

“TC?” I called.

Silly, of course. He wasn’t the only black animal in Cainsville. But when I paused, my legs twitched, as if urging me to keep going. I checked around the hedge. No sign of any furred critters. I scanned the yard but still saw nothing. So I resumed my jog.

I’d gone halfway down the quiet street when a shape darted across the intersection ahead. There was no doubt it was a black cat, roughly the same size as TC.

I whistled. The cat scampered along the next street and vanished out of sight.

“TC?” I called as I hurried after him.

Seriously? Take a hint, girl. Dude’s running the other way. You’ve never chased a guy before. Don’t start now.

I just wanted to make sure he was okay. That he hadn’t been …

What? Abducted from my apartment? Kidnapped and dumped here, a mile away, and somehow couldn’t find his way home? It was a mile. Real pets cross continents for their people.

When I reached the corner, there was no sign of TC, but I jogged along looking left and right. At the next corner, I stopped on the curb and closed my eyes. I felt a twinge and opened my eyes just as a black cat dashed into a yard.

Let me get close enough to make sure it’s him. That’s all I need.

When I neared the house, I slowed. The shuttered windows made the house look as if it was asleep. No, as if it was drowsing, waiting …

I shook off the feeling. Still, the house was worth staring at. Victorian literature was my area of specialty, but I’d always taken an interest in architecture, too, and this house combined the two perfectly. It was a Queen Anne, which often conjures up images of the most over-the-top, wedding-cake Victorians, but this one had the hallmarks while showing dignified restraint. Less of a flouncy cancan dancer than a well-born lady who knows how to rock a fancy dress and killer pair of heels.

It had an asymmetrical front, with a rounded porch extending along the left side. There was no Queen Anne tower, but the front window and the one above it were large, three-sided bays, forming a half tower. The details were Free Classic style, meaning they lacked the ornate gingerbread, instead favoring columns and simpler molding.

I continued forward. The street was lined with oaks and elms and maples, not one of which was under a hundred years old. An evening breeze made the leaves dance, and brought the faint perfume of magnolia blossoms.

I reached the house. The yard was emerald green and perfectly trimmed, as were the rose bushes and hydrangeas. The gardens were otherwise empty, though. Weeded, as if someone had meant to plant but lost track of time and missed the season.

A wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. On every post was a chimera head, like the ones in the park. I touched a minotaur.

This fence wasn’t something you could hire the local builder to install, even a hundred years ago. Gorgeous, expensive custom work. I walked down to the next chimera. That’s when I glanced up at the house and noticed the frieze under the cornices. Gargoyles.

“Mrrowwww.”

The plaintive cry made me jump. It was TC, beyond a doubt. The call came from the side of the house, but I could see nothing there. Then it sounded again.

I bent outside the fence and called him. I whistled. I chirped. I clucked. I made every “here, kitty kitty” noise I could think of, and as I did, his cries grew louder and more urgent.

He’s hurt. He’s trapped.

He couldn’t be. I’d just seen him.

As the meowing continued, I pushed through the latched gate and up onto the porch. I rang the bell. I used the knocker. Brass, with a cuckoo’s head—a good marriage omen. I called a hello. TC yowled louder.

No one was home. That’s why the shutters were closed. The owners were gone for a while, the house battened down tight.

I cast one last look at the leaded-glass sidelights to be sure a light wouldn’t suddenly flick on, then I went back down the porch steps and around the side of the house. I immediately saw where the noise had come from: an open basement window. I hurried over. The window was a side-slider, open maybe six inches. Below, all was dark, but I could hear TC meowing.

My flashlight app is far from perfect, but when I reached my phone through the window, it dimly lit a typical old-house basement, with a dirt floor and bare walls. And a cat. My cat. Yowling for me to rescue him.

“What?” I said. “Ten minutes ago you run away from me, then you jump through a window to hide, find yourself trapped, and decide maybe I’m not so bad after all? I should leave you down there.”

He yowled louder.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.

I looked around. One shutter near the front of the house had come unfastened and tapped in the breeze. I walked over, opened it, and stood on tiptoes to peer into the house.

The room was as empty as the basement.

The owners hadn’t just left for a while. No one lived here. I stepped back for a better look. The house was in excellent shape for its age. Well tended, too. How could a place like this sit empty without even a For Sale sign on the lawn?

Not my concern, really. What mattered was that it was empty and my damned cat was trapped in the basement.

I went around to the back door. While I had no issue with breaking into an empty house for good cause, I sure as hell wasn’t doing it from the front.

The backyard was at least a half acre—classic Victorian garden, with grass replaced by cobblestone walks and flowerbeds. There was an empty fishpond, too, with a fountain. Moss and ivy covered fantastical statuary—fairies and green men, mermaids and fauns. Cleaned up and filled in, it would be a showpiece. Right now, it had a desolate, almost haunting air, and I paused there, feeling the tug of it, inviting me to wander in the twilight. Lovely thought, if my damned cat wasn’t still yowling.

I went through a walled patio and tried the back door. Unlocked. Not surprising. I was the only person in town with a security system, or so Grace had muttered when I explained to her how it worked.

I eased open the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The house was so silent even my breathing seemed to echo through the empty rooms. TC had stopped yowling, as if knowing rescue was imminent. I stepped slowly into the kitchen as my eyes adjusted to the near dark.

No appliances. Bare counters covered in a layer of dust. Leaded-glass doors on the cupboards showed they were equally bare.

The basement door was right there, in the kitchen. I took out my gun before opening it. Yes, I carried a gun jogging. Gabriel had bought me a holster and insisted on it after I found Ciara in my car. I was happy for it now. I didn’t care if the house was obviously empty—I wasn’t venturing unarmed into the pitch-black basement of an abandoned house chasing my missing cat. That screams slasher flick.

I called TC from the top of the stairs. He responded with a cry, but it was muffled, as if there was a door between us. I took it slow going down the stairs, ignoring his increasingly frantic yowls.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called. “Remind me again why I wanted you back? Damn cat.”

The basement opened into a large room with several closed doors. It was as still as the main floor. I cast my mock flashlight around and saw more of what I’d spotted through the window. Dirt floor. Bare walls.

TC scratched at one of the closed doors. When I opened it, he darted out. I bent to pet him. As soon as I touched his side, I stopped. I could feel his ribs. His fur was matted and bedraggled.

Had he been trapped—?

No, I’d seen him outside. He must have just had a hard time on the streets.

A hard time on the streets of Cainsville? This wasn’t Englewood. He hadn’t been in this condition when he first adopted me. Thin, yes. Fleas, yes. But basically fine.

I pushed the door open farther and hit the light switch. Nothing happened. The power was off. I could see a puddle under the window, as if rain had come in. It hadn’t rained since Saturday night. There were mice, too, or what remained of them. Food and water.

“You were trapped down here,” I said. “That wasn’t you I saw.”

Yet it had been, in a way. An omen that had led me to him. When I bent, he rubbed against me and lifted onto his hind legs. I gingerly picked him up, expecting him to leap down—we didn’t have a cuddly-kitty relationship. He settled into my arms and purred.

“That happy to see me, huh?” I said. “Something tells me you won’t take off for a jaunt anytime soon.” I settled him in my arms. “Let’s get you home. I think I’ve got a can of tuna in the cupboard.”

He purred louder. I carried him up the stairs, talking to him, reaching out to push open the door, and—

My hand hit the solid door. Okay, apparently I’d shut it when I came down. That was an old habit from living at home, where my mother would get so flustered over an open basement door, you’d think hordes of bats and spiders were preparing to launch an assault.

I reached for the handle. It turned easily. I pushed. Nothing happened. I pushed harder. Still nothing.

The door was sticking. Old houses. Swollen wood. Whatever. I put TC down, twisted the handle, and rammed my shoulder against it. Pain shot though my shoulder. The door didn’t budge. I shone the light in the crack between the door and the frame, then turned the handle and watched the bolt disengage. I ran the light up and down, but there was no sign of anything else holding it closed.

“No need to panic,” I told the cat, who was placidly cleaning his ears. “There’s no one here, so we haven’t been locked in the basement. We’re just stuck. Temporarily.”

He meowed and trotted back down the stairs.

“Good idea,” I said. “Search for an alternate exit.”

I had just reached the bottom of the steps when my phone rang. Gabriel.

“What’s up?” I said as casually as I could for someone trapped in the basement of an abandoned house.

“I need information from the Meade file. You took it, correct?”

“Right. You asked me to have a look—”

“Yes, I know. But I need witness contact information from it. Are you at home?”

I looked around. “Not exactly.”

“It’s rather urgent. A new development in the case, and I have to check with the witness before the prosecution does. If you aren’t close by, I’ll need to go out to your apartment.”

“I have a security system now and updated locks.”

“Then I’ll take the code. You can change it after.”

That didn’t cover the updated locks, which he presumably could still pick. Hell, I was sure he could disarm the alarm, too—he was just pretending otherwise to make me feel secure.

“I’m close to home,” I said as I walked across the basement, looking for doors or large windows. “Just give me—”

The cat yowled.

“Is that TC?” Gabriel said.

“It is. I found him.”

A louder yowl as the cat called my attention to something. I hurried toward him. It was a dead mouse. Lovely. He kept yowling even when I patted his head.

“He doesn’t sound very happy, Olivia,” Gabriel said.

“I know. He wants to get home.”

A pause as the cat kept it up.

“Are you sure?” His voice lowered. “I know you miss him, but if he doesn’t want to go back with you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I never wanted a cat in the first place. Do you really think I’d be dragging him home now? Scratching and yowling?”

The cat stopped.

“Thank you,” I whispered. Then to Gabriel, “Can I call you back?”

“How far are you from home?”

“About a mile.”

“All right. While you walk, tell me what you found in—”

“Actually, now’s not a good time,” I said, staring up at another window I’d never fit through. “I’ll call you back.”

TC meowed. Loudly. It echoed through the empty basement.

“Where are you, Olivia?”

“Can I call—?”

TC began scratching at a different closed door. While yowling.

“Olivia. Where—?”

“On my way home. Soon.” I checked the room where TC had been scratching. One window. No bigger than the rest. I closed the door again. “I’ve just … I’ve had a setback. Can I just call you—?”

“You’re not outside, are you?”

I sighed. “No, okay? I’m … I found TC in the basement of an abandoned house. Well, I’m not sure you’d call it abandoned—it’s just not being lived in. I’m having trouble getting out of the basement.”

“Trouble?”

The cat sat on the bottom step, looking up at me, silent now.

“I went downstairs, and I must have closed the door, but it won’t open. It doesn’t seem to be locked, but I can’t get it—”

“You’re chatting with me about work when someone has locked you in a basement?”

“You were chatting about work. I was looking for an exit. And no one has me locked—”

“The door mysteriously closes behind you and won’t reopen?”

“I might have closed it, like I said. There’s no one here. The place is so quiet I’d hear a mouse scampering.”

A ding sounded at the other end of the line. Then the familiar whoosh of a closing elevator door.

“Where are you?” I asked carefully.

“Coming to get you.”

“No, no, no. Go back up to your condo. I’m fine.”

“You’re locked in the basement of an empty house, a week after being knocked out by someone who left a severed head in your bed. Also after repeatedly seeing a fetch—”

“It wasn’t a fetch. Rose thinks … Never mind. The point is—”

“The point is that you are trapped in a basement.” His footsteps echoed. Parking garage.

“And you are an hour away.”

“If I drove the speed limit. Which I do not.”

I sighed. “I’m fine, Gabriel. If I really can’t get out, my phone obviously works. I can call the police.”

“After breaking into an empty house?”

“It was unlocked. Look, if I need to, I can call Rose.”

“She’s in the city tonight on a date.”

“Date?” I tried to picture it and failed. “Okay, then I’ll call someone at the diner—if and when I’m absolutely sure that I can’t get out. My cell phone battery is half full. The house is silent. I’m not going to die down here.”

“What’s the address?” His car’s engine roared to life.

“Gabriel? Really. Don’t do this. I made a stupid mistake—”

“I’ll call you for the address when I’m in Cainsville. If you hear anything, phone the police. Don’t worry about trespassing charges. I can fix that.”

He hung up. TC rubbed against me, purring.

“Oh, now you’re happy. You yowled on purpose, didn’t you?” I was kidding, of course, but when he glanced up, I swear he looked very pleased with himself.

“We don’t need rescuing,” I said as I tramped up the stairs. “He knows that. He’s making a big deal out of it so I’ll owe him. Then he can get away with even more shit, because I’ll remember the times he came running to help me, and I’ll feel guilty.” I glanced at TC, leaping up the stairs alongside me. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

He purred.

I’d get this damn door open if I dislocated my shoulder doing it. I twisted the handle, went to ram it with my shoulder … and fell through as it opened. I tripped over the top step and landed on my hip on the kitchen floor, my cell phone skidding across the linoleum. TC trotted over to it, bent, and nosed it my way.

“Thank you,” I muttered as I sat up and grabbed it back. “You are truly helpful. You’re lucky my gun didn’t fall out and shoot you. Accidents happen, you know. Tragic kitty accidents.”

He only sniffed.

I speed-dialed Gabriel. It went to voice mail. Not surprising—it was much harder to rescue someone if she called and told you she didn’t need rescue. I told him exactly that and texted the same message, abbreviated. There could be no question now—I was fine and I’d notified him, so I owed him nothing.

“Okay, TC,” I said, pushing myself up. “Time to go home.”

He darted across the kitchen and into the next room.

“Um, wrong door?” I called.

As I followed the cat, I noticed the elaborate frieze in the front parlor. I looked at one section. Seven magpies. Six leaned over, beak to their neighbor’s head, as if whispering to him. The seventh stood there, oblivious.

Seven for a secret, not to be told.

The old rhyme played in my head.

One for sorrow,

Two for mirth,

Three for a wedding,

Four for birth,

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for heaven,

Nine for hell,

And ten is for the devil’s own self.

I craned my neck to scan the entire frieze. They were all magpies, in their groups, from one to ten. The first magpie with its wing over its head, weeping. Then two with their heads thrown back, laughing. I quickly snapped pictures. Then I backed up to the dining room. The frieze here was crows, illustrating a similar rhyme.

One for bad news,

Two for mirth.

Three is a wedding,

Four is a birth.

Five is for riches,

Six is a thief.

Seven, a journey,

Eight is for grief.

Nine is a secret,

Ten is for sorrow.

Eleven is for love,

Twelve is the hope of joy for tomorrow.

TC meowed from the next room. Right. This wasn’t an Open House. Time to get my damn cat and go.

“Come on,” I whispered. “We need to leave out the back—”

He darted in the opposite direction.

“Hey!”

I rounded the corner into the front hall … only to see him leaping up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“No! The exit is here!”

I jabbed my finger toward the front door. The problem with animals? Rational explanation doesn’t work. Nor does a firm “Get back here now!” At least not with cats, which is why I’m really more of a dog person.

I sighed and ran up the stairs. They ended in a hallway with doors on either side and one at the end. All except the one at the end were open just enough for a cat to slip through.

“TC?”

I couldn’t pick up so much as the padding of little paws.

“Look,” I said. “I’m very good at reading signs, and if you’re telling me you wanted out of that basement but don’t want to go home with me, that’s fine. Just let me put you outside, okay?”

“Mrrow.”

His call came from farther down the hall. Then a scratch at the door—which seemed to be the one that was closed.

“Really? Damn it, you are a pain in the ass.”

I turned the handle and—

Locked. There was an old-fashioned keyhole, empty, and when I shone my light, I could see the latch was engaged.

TC meowed again—from my left, through one of the partly open doors.

“Thank God,” I muttered as I pushed open the door. “Now come—”

He leapt onto a windowsill. I sighed and walked in. It was brighter up here. No closed shutters on these windows, just drawn shades.

Partway to the window, I stopped and stared at the floor. The blocks of parquet formed a pattern in the middle of the room. A symbol.

It was about three feet across, with intricately cut pieces of various shades, painstakingly laid out to form a triskelion. Each “arm” was a stylized bird’s head, done in an old Celtic style, like in the Book of Kells. When I got the angle right, I could tell what kind of birds they were, even with the stylized design. The beaks, ear tufts, and facial disks gave it away. Owls. I was taking out my cell to snap another picture when TC yowled.

He was still on the window ledge, now scratching at the blind.

I sighed. “That’s not an exit.”

When he ignored me, I tugged the blind open a few inches.

“See? Not an exit.”

Rising moonlight shone through. If I wanted a picture, I could use more light. I fully opened the blind to reveal a stained-glass window. Odd for a second story. It wasn’t even all that decorative—panels of leaded glass with a deformed circle of yellow glass in the middle. I turned back to the floor mosaic, and when I did, I had to take a second look. The yellow circle of stained glass cast a light that illuminated the head of one owl.

There were two more windows along the side wall. A lot for a small corner room. I pulled up their blinds. One window had a circle of red, the other blue. The moonlight shone through and lit up the other two heads. I stood, marveling at it … until fourth-grade science kicked in and I realized the moon shouldn’t be able to hit three windows at just the right angle to illuminate all three heads at the same time. Even if there was a moment when it could, what was the chance that moment happened to be right now?

I drew closer and took more pictures. There was a symbol of some kind in the middle of the triskelion, but it was impossible to make out from this angle. I stepped into the circle and—

I was walking through a field. There was no moment of transition. No moment of internal shock, either. It felt as if I’d been walking through a field all along. Walking and humming. Except my voice was high, like a child’s. Long grass swished as I cut through it, and the tops tickled my dangling hand. I looked down to see a small and slender girlish hand.

When a butterfly flitted past, I watched it go. A white butterfly. Good luck. I smiled and kept walking. I could smell water ahead, the slightly swampy, pungent smell. That’s what guided me. With each step, I heard a clink and a rattle, and I reached into my pocket, felt stones there, and pulled out three. Two black, one white. More black than white. I smiled and took out two more. Two black now, three white. More white than black. I smiled again, equally pleased.

Black, white. Dark, light. Good and bad, bad and good. It depended on how you looked at it, and the interpretation was ever changing. I was a creature of the dark and the light. The night and the day. The owl and the raven. I could choose light or I could choose dark, and it was not a choice of good or evil, but only a choice of one or the other, left or right, in or out, up or down.

I could hear the water now, rushing over rapids. Soon I spotted a small river. On the other side, gnarled trees choked out the sunlight. I smelled the forest, damp and dark and decaying. I looked from the sun-dappled meadow to the dark forest, and I felt no glimmer of preference. Two sides to life, both equally alive, equally rich, equally intriguing.

I was done in the meadow for today. I’d cut through vines and climb the twisted trees and see what new wonders lay within the forest. All I had to do was cross the stream.

I pushed through the waist-high grass until I saw the water ahead, rushing and crashing over the rocks. Then I stopped.

There was a woman on the riverbank. The ugliest woman I’d ever seen. She looked like a corpse—dressed in tatters, washing her hands in the stream, tangled dark hair writhing over bone-thin arms, skin like jerky, twisted and tough and shrunken. Her face was horrible, with a long nose, blackened, jagged teeth, and sunken eyes—one black and one gray.

“Y mae mor salw â Gwrach y Rhibyn,” I whispered.

She lifted her head, recognizing her name. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Those sunken eyes looked straight at me. Then she began to wail, so loud my hands flew to my ears.

“Fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach,” she shrieked. “Fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach.”

My child. My little child.

Death is near. I have seen Gwrach y Rhibyn, and she warns me.

I staggered backward … into the bedroom, where I stood in the triskelion circle.

“Well, that wasn’t just a little bit weird,” I muttered.

TC chirped.

“Yeah, I know. These days, weird is my life. I should get that on a T-shirt.”

I struggled to focus. It was surprisingly easy. I had just emerged from a dream state after stepping into a magically lit symbol ingrained in the floor of an old, abandoned house. I should be running for the door. Or huddled on the floor, rocking. But somehow it was like seeing red-eyed hounds and strange men who gave me boar’s tusks. I could mentally lift the vision wholesale and stick it into the already overflowing “crazy shit I’ll deal with later” box in my brain. At least I wasn’t still trying to find rational explanations. That was progress. Or the sign of a complete mental breakdown.

I turned to TC. “Now can we go?”

He scampered out.

In the hall, I spotted him at the end, nudging that one closed door. “You have the worst sense of direction, don’t you? That’s locked—”

TC pushed it half open with his paw.

“No!” I said, lunging after him. “Not in—”

He dashed through. I didn’t spend a second wondering how the heck a locked door got opened, because for once the rational explanation was the one that made sense. It was also the one that had me taking out my gun.

That door had been locked. Absolutely, undeniably locked. If it wasn’t now, that meant I wasn’t the only person here.

I suppose the intruder expected me to tear through after TC, having lured him in with some ripe-smelling tidbit. But while I was fond of my cat, it was a “break into an abandoned house for him” kind of affection, not “run into a death trap for him.”

Gun raised, I kicked open the door and peered in. Steep steps rose into darkness. The attic.

“TC?” I called.

A bump sounded above, as if he’d jumped onto something. Then a loud thump, and I had to stop myself from running up after him.

“TC?” I called. “Are you okay?”

Another thump, lighter. Then an odd bump-bump-bump over the floorboards. I pointed my gun with one hand while lifting my flashlight-phone with the other. TC appeared, dragging something behind him. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and meowed.

“Come down here,” I said.

He answered with a “No, you come here” yowl. When I didn’t move, he nudged his trophy to the edge of the steps. I could make out a rough covering, like fur. He grabbed the fur and pulled the thing closer to the edge.

“Is that a rat?” I said.

It was too big for a mouse. Hell, it looked big enough to be a raccoon—a young one, at least. I stepped forward then stopped, as I remembered why I was staying at the base of the stairs.

“Come down,” I said. “Now. I’m not chasing—”

He disappeared. I fought a groan. I should leave. I really should. But if someone was up there, TC might get hurt. I was about to call him again when the bundle at the top of the stairs moved. He was pushing it toward the edge. Determined to bring his prize with him.

“I don’t want—”

Too late. He gave the thing a shove and down it came, bump-bumping over the steps as it rolled, while he trotted behind it. When his trophy was halfway down, I started to realize what it was, but I just stood there, light shining on the thing, watching it roll, telling myself I was wrong, had to be wrong, until it came to rest at my feet, and I was looking down at the head of Ciara Conway.