The ground is crumbling under my feet as I’m running. Always running, toward the house framed against the dark clouds and the lightning flashes. The house is dark, but I know they are inside. I need to reach them before it’s swallowed into the earth and is gone.

Before they are gone, too.

My boots sink into the mud. I stumble, and fall, and scramble on my hands and knees.

The earth shakes, and I roll. A chasm is opening, deep, with a stench of something dead. I dig my fingers into the ground, trying to hold on.

I can’t. I’m falling.

And the house is sinking. Screams echo in my ears.

They’re dying. They’re dead. I’ve let them die.

My fault. It’s all my damn fault, and I’m following them, drowning, suffocating as the earth fills my mouth and nose, my eyes, my ears.

Buried alive in a shifting grave.

I fight it. I always fight it, even as the sorrow seeps into my bones, weighing me down like a suit of lead. I struggle for breath, for a handhold, for a way out.

No air. My lungs ache, compressed, laboring on nothing.

My eyes fly open.

I’m lying on my bed.

Quiet.

The room is steeped in darkness. Something heavy lies on my chest, and I shove at it, struggling to breathe. I put my hand on it and it’s a head.

Emma’s head. She looks up at me, and her eyes are empty.

Holy fuck. I scramble up, a howl lodged in my throat, choking me but unable to come out. I jerk away, and fall.

My back hits the carpet, and my head hits the floor with a thump, the impact jarring my whole body.

Awake at last.

I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, my heart trying to pound its way out of my throat, out of my chest, taking a hammer to my ribs.

Oh God…

I splay a hand on my chest, pressing down, to keep my heart from exploding as I pant for breath. My stomach roils.

My fucking eyes burn. I bring my other hand up and rub at my left wrist, a ritual after every nightmare.

On nights like this, I wish I’d finished the fucking job.

But I should know by now. I do know it: there’s no escape from this hell.

* * *

Octavia arrives on time, like always, and I brush by her, trying to ignore her eyes, her mouth, her scent, her voice, the way her dark hair is caught in a high ponytail that swings with her every step, like her hips.

Ignoring her is easier today, with all the ghosts on my mind—and at the same time a thousand times harder.

She’s dressed in faded jeans and a cardigan over a white shirt. The tiny buttons are begging to be undone, the fine lace of her white bra visible when she bends over to ruffle Cole’s hair, asking to be ripped off her skin.

I’m undressing her with my eyes, and I’m so fucked.

Grabbing my jacket and my keys, I tear out of the house like a bat out of hell.

Later, when I arrive at the garage, I can’t even remember if I told my kids goodbye. Certainly didn’t kiss them goodbye. And here I’d thought to try and get close to them, make them less afraid of me.

Fuck.

My phone buzzes as I clock in, and I check just to make sure it’s not Octavia calling to tell me something happened to the brats. But it’s not.

I let the call go to voicemail and check with Evan who points me at a battered Toyota to start my workday. The phone buzzes again.

And again.

Christ.

So, I connect the call I’ve been ignoring for weeks—or months?—and lift the phone to my ear.

“I don’t have time to talk now,” I bark.

There’s a choked chuckle on the other end. “Well, hello to you too, fucker,” Zane says. “Farting rainbows and sunshine, like always.”

“Fuck you, too,” I mumble.

Zane was—is?—Emma’s adopted brother. Is he still her adopted brother if she’s gone?

Haven’t seen him in years. He drove over to St. Louis a few months after Emma… He came to see the kids. And then I never stuck around when he visited, because seeing him reminded me of her.

And I couldn’t stand it.

“What’s up, man? You never answer my calls anymore. Just wanted to check if you’re still breathing and haven’t gone tits up.” This is Zane trying to be sensitive and diplomatic, and somehow it makes me snort.

“Still here.”

“Good to know, fucker. Would it have hurt you to let me know? Or your mother who’s going stir-crazy, not knowing where the hell you are and if you’re okay.”

I scrub a hand over my face. This headache is fucking lethal. “Yeah, well. You tell her I’m fine, all right?”

“No can do. She needs to hear it from you.”

“The hell she does.” I’m lifting my thumb to end the call, when he sighs.

“Wait, Matt.”

Unease touches my spine like icy fingers. “What?”

All the questions trip on the tip of my tongue—is he sick? Is his girlfriend okay? Wait, did they have kids? I can’t fucking remember. Did something happen?

But at the same time I don’t wanna know. One more stone around my neck will pull me down into the void—that stinking chasm of my dreams, and the memory drag a soft moan from my throat.

I can’t. Can’t fucking go back there. My breath catches, and I slam my hand into the wall for support.

“I’m just worried about you,” he’s saying. “And the kids.” When I don’t reply, he grunts. “Look, where the hell are you at, anyway? Your mom said you headed out to bumfuck nowhere.” He hesitates. “Or something like that.”

“None of your business,” I wheeze.

“Matt. Hey.” His voice changes. “Why do you sound like that? Are you okay, man?”

He needs an answer if he’s gonna leave me in peace, so I force it out. “Yeah.”

But obviously, it’s not good enough because Zane goes off instantly.

“What the fuck’s wrong? Where are you? Is there someone there with you? Does your chest hurt?”

“Fuck you, Zane. I’m not dying.” I disconnect, my hand shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.

I’m not dying, although it sure feels like it. In fact, I’m not even entirely sure I’m alive. Or awake.

For years now I haven’t been able to tell reality from nightmare, and today’s no different.

* * *

When I return home after work, I’m fucking beat. I sort of sleep-drive my pick-up outside the house and throw it into park, then sit there for a long moment, gathering my wits.

I’m so damn tired.

The sky is deepening. The clock is ticking. I finally open the door and climb out, the thump of my boots too loud in my ears. Since banging my head against the pick-up door will only make my headache worse, I convince myself not to try it.

Instead I head toward the house, one foot in front of the other. I climb the three steps of the porch and reach for the door handle.

That’s when I see the paper stuck to the wooden surface. I blink, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks, but the fucking paper is still there.

Stuck to my door with a knife. Big bold letters at the top of the paper proclaim YOU WILL SUFFER FOR YOUR SINS.

It’s like the fucking movies, only this isn’t supposed to happen in real everyday life.

My life. On my door, my house with my kids inside.

Jesus Fuck, the kids. And Octavia.

I try to push my key into the lock, but my hands are shaking too bad. I bang on the door, yell their names, try again until I somehow manage to insert the key into the damn lock and throw the door open.

“Mary! Cole!” I tear through the living room, my ears straining for a sound. The kitchen is empty, and so is the store room. “Octavia!”

A shout sounds from upstairs and my heart trips. Throwing myself at the stairs, I take the steps three at a time, bursting onto the landing and into the kids’ bedroom in two seconds flat.

Octavia looks up from where she’s changing Cole’s diaper. Mary is standing beside her, a doll in her hand. They all stare at me, eyes wide.

“What the fuck,” I pant, trying to wrap my head around the fact they all look fine. Safe and sound. Alive. “What…?”

I can’t even formulate the question.

Octavia pulls up Cole’s pants and lowers him to the floor, turning to face me. Her slender brows draw together. “What’s wrong?”

Oh baby, too many things to count. But not a word comes out of my mouth. I lurch forward, grab Mary and Cole in my arms and drop to my knees on the thick carpet, closing my eyes.

The piece of paper flutters to the floor.

“Matt…” Octavia puts a hand on my shoulder, and I let go of Mary to blindly reach for her. I grip her arm, the feel of her solid, warm flesh chasing some of the fear away. “What happened?”

“You dropped this,” Mary says in a small voice, and lifts the paper from the floor.

I reach for her again and Octavia squeaks when I pull her along too, down to the floor, into my arms.

We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, until Cole squirms and babbles and wails until I let him go play with his toys.

Mary and Octavia are looking at me, quiet. I pat my daughter’s cheek, try to tuck a strand of hair behind her tiny ear, and she bats my hand away.

“Let me up,” she demands, and reluctantly I release her small body from my side.

Still afraid of me.

Not that I’ve given her much cause to trust me lately. I watch her join Cole by the window and grab a legless doll out of his hand, her face stormy.

Cole seems absorbed in his Lego construction. It looks like a haunted castle, all holes and uneven walls.

I shiver.

Octavia clears her throat, and I realize she’s still kneeling beside me—and I’m still holding her plastered to my side, my arm around her back.

Under my palm, through the thin cotton of her shirt, I feel her warmth, the fine bones of her ribcage, the curve of her hip, and a bolt of need shoots through my body. She smells so sweet, and her soft hair brushes my neck when she turns her face up to look at me.

So close. Her eyes like summer skies. Her mouth soft and inviting.

Pulling back my arm, I struggle to compose myself. I need to regroup.

Need to calm down before my heart gives out.

She unfolds gracefully, climbing to her feet. “Want to tell me what happened?”

The filthy piece of paper is scrunched up beside me where Mary dropped it when I hauled her to me.

I pick it up. Hand’s still shaking.

Dammit.

“Nothing happened,” I say and shove it into my pocket.

If this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, I’ve scared my family enough for one day. My family and the nanny who has no clue what a fucked-up crazy-ass mess her employer is.

Let’s keep it that way.