Aftermath by Kelley Armstrong (36)

Despite the cosmetic changes at Fletcher Park, the layout remains the same. Playground next to the road and parking lot. Picnic pavilion behind it. Baseball diamond behind that. Beyond the bleachers is what used to be open field. Now it’s under development, with a few partial homes. Machinery and turned-up soil mark land where we once played tag and hide-and-seek in the long grass.

I even had a fort out there once. The first time I brought Jesse, I showed him what remained of it, and he was very impressed by my construction skills. Typical Jesse – not “Wow, that’s a cool fort,” but “Wow, you built it properly.” And I was so much more pleased with that.

My fort is long gone, and this afternoon, when we sat on the pavilion roof, I gazed into the field and felt what I suppose is nostalgia. Seems weird at my age, but that was what I felt, seeing the playground revamped and the field torn up.

As we get out of the car, I text Tiffany.

“I’m sure you are,” Jesse mutters as he peers around the playground. Dusk has settled hard, and the park grounds are more shadow than light. He looks at my phone and opens his mouth. Then he shuts it.

He isn’t happy about this. On the drive, I phoned Tiffany to check whether she sent those texts. She didn’t answer.

We climb onto the playground equipment, giving us a good place to see from and be seen from. Then we wait.

Jesse spots the figure first. He nudges me and discreetly gestures toward the pavilion. Someone’s standing half hidden in shadows. Someone who is too tall to be Tiffany.

The figure pulls back around the building.

I text Tiffany.

Uh-huh. 

Jesse reads the texts. Then he says, “Can you scroll up?”

“That’s all she sent tonight. Well, except for this.” I move to our brief conversation earlier in the evening. He reads it and frowns.

“Problem?” I say.

“She uses full words. Like you.”

I shrug. “A writer thing, I guess.”

“Yes, but —”

A phone sounds. Just the first notes of a ring tone, cut short. We both look up fast. The figure beside the pavilion has his head down, hands in front, as if silencing that ring.

The figure looks up… and sees us looking straight at him. He takes a slow step back. I slide down the climber, my feet hitting the recycled rubber with a squeak.

“Skye!” Jesse whispers.

The figure takes off. I go after him.

I hear that rubber squeak again as Jesse jumps down, and then the pound of his footsteps as he calls, “Skye! Get back here!”

I know I’m doing something reckless, but I need to see this person. It might be the only chance to clear my name. Just one glimpse of a face, and I’ll know who’s behind this.

As I run, I see every dirty look I’ve gotten in the past three years. I hear every whisper behind my back. I reread every online comment. Everyone who thinks I did something. That I knew something. That I failed to stop my brother. That I’m cursed with the same taint, and what’s happening now is just proof I have a few screws loose, like Luka and my mother, and that my father was right to abandon us, to get as far as he could from his messed-up family.

As I pass the pavilion, I fumble to get my phone out. I can see the figure ahead as he tears toward the housing development. I just need to get close enough to startle him. Make him turn, and when he does, I’ll have my phone ready for a photo.

I glance back. Jesse got a late start, and I’m running full out, but it’s not enough. Jesse’s gaining.

Just a few more seconds. I’m gaining on my target too, close enough now to be positive it’s a guy. He’s dressed in black, which makes it increasingly hard to follow him as the streetlights fade behind us.

I can’t shake Jesse. His specialties are sprints and hurdles, and he’s in his element here, running fast and leaping over debris.

I race around a stack of building lumber. Behind me, I hear a grunt of pain, as if Jesse jumped and landed wrong. I resist the urge to slow.

The guy swings behind a half-constructed house. I’m about ten paces behind. I turn to follow and —

My target is gone.

“Skye!”

Jesse’s voice trails off in a hiss of pain. I don’t hear his footsteps. I haven’t heard them since that grunt when he misjudged the pile.

“Skye!” The thump of a step then. A slow thump, followed by a drag. He’s hurt.

I look around. My target has vanished. I’ve lost him.

“Skye, please!”

I turn toward Jesse. A hand grabs my jacket. I try to clasp his wrist, but he’s behind me, out of reach.

“Skye?” Jesse shouts.

A hand claps over my mouth. Jesse’s footfalls are moving faster now, but he’s heading the other way. He’s heard or seen something that sends him in the wrong direction.

I try to bite the hand over my mouth, but I can’t get a grip. My captor adjusts and locks his arm over my throat instead. His forearm pushes against my windpipe. I can’t breathe, and I fight harder, trying to kick, punch, no longer caring about getting a proper hold.

I smell something chemical. Metallic.

The guy reaches around me, holding a cloth soaked with that chemical stink.

I grab him by the wrist. He’s wearing a jacket and gloves, but I clamp down as tight as I can, and then try swinging him into a hold. It’s not perfect, and that sleeve is nylon, slipping under my fingers. He drops the cloth, though. Drops his arm off my throat, too. That gives me room to move, yanking his arm —

There’s something in his other hand. The reason he let go of my throat. To take a knife from his belt. A blade slices toward my arm.

I don’t let go. I can’t let go. If I do, I’m lost.

I see that blade coming, and I grit my teeth and keep twisting his arm, keep trying to throw him. The blade slashes through my jacket. Slashes through skin and into flesh.

I barely feel it. Everything is focused on what I’m doing.

This attack is no prank. No game. If I let go, he’ll put that stinking cloth over my mouth and nose, and I have no idea what will happen then.

I’m still holding his arm, but there’s blood, and then there’s pain, and my muscles will not do what I need them to do. I can’t throw him. I can’t get the leverage, and there’s blood on his nylon jacket, and my hands slide.

He backhands me across the face. I reel. He shoves me. I see him coming. I see his face for the first time.

And there’s no face to see. He’s wearing a balaclava: a tight black hood over his head, with only holes for eyes and mouth. He’s moving so fast I can’t even see the color of his eyes. All this, and I get nothing.

He shoves me, and I come back swinging, but I’m already falling.

I keep falling, and when I finally hit the ground, the crash is hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. I lie there, struggling to breathe.

Then I look up. Way up. To see the guy standing at least eight feet overhead, on the edge of a hole.

“Skye!”

It’s Jesse. He’s heard the thud of me falling, and he’s running this way. My attacker hesitates for a split second. Then he takes off.