He cranks my arm behind my back and lifts my hand. I struggle, panic scrambling in my throat like an animal trying to claw its way out of a trap. I hear the snip of bone. Pain explodes in my finger and travels up my arm at light speed. My own scream sounds far away. Tiny lights swirl in front of my face.
Snip.
I scream again. The agony reaches a level my brain can’t comprehend. My heart beats so fast, it feels like it could explode. The sheer terror of suffering more pain fills my chest to bursting. My body shakes uncontrollably, as if it’s no longer connected to my will. Fear becomes a separate entity.
Snip.
I’m beyond words now, whimpering and grunting like a prey animal as he moves in front of me again. He lifts the gun and points it directly at my head. I snivel. I have only one thought. Do it. Please, just do it. Tears and snot run down my face. I have no control over the reactions of my own body. There’s no dignity now. He’s won.
And he knows it.
He looks down the barrel. Just above the sight, I see the corner of his mouth curve up in a cruel almost-smile. He’s in no rush. He’s enjoying this, dragging it out, savoring every second.
I have nothing left. I just want it to be over. I want to stare him down. I want to be brave. I want to be the person I’ve always imagined I could become. But that’s just not me. One attempt at virtue can’t undo all the bad things I’ve done. I’m a coward and a failure. In the end, I close my eyes.
No good deed goes unpunished.
CHAPTER TWO
Sheriff Bree Taggert stood in the road at the end of the driveway. Her stomach turned, a faint queasiness rising in the back of her throat as she stared at the house. Upstate New York was in the middle of a heat wave. At noon, the air was oppressive and humid. A sense of claustrophobia closed over her, which made no sense. She was outside. But the trapped feeling wasn’t due to physical constraints. It was the memories that came with this house. The only place she feared being trapped in was her past.
The roof sagged, and years of wind, rain, and neglect had peeled the paint from the wooden clapboards, turning the exterior to a weathered gray. Untrimmed trees and overgrown foliage blocked the sun and left the house cast in deep shadows, even on a sunny afternoon in mid-July.
Bree inhaled. The scent of decay and dampness lingered in her nostrils. Twenty-seven years before, this had been her childhood home, but she had no warm or fuzzy memories attached to it. Inside those rotting walls, her father had shot her mother and then killed himself while Bree and her siblings had hidden in terror. She shuddered, the memories she’d banished to the dark corners stepping into the light to show themselves.
She glanced at her younger brother, standing on the other side of her. At twenty-eight, Adam was tall and lanky, with unruly brown hair that curled over his ears.
“Sorry I’m late.” She did not tell him why. He didn’t need to hear about the college kid who’d OD’d early that morning. Bree wished she could forget his face, already blue by the time her department had responded. But his image, and that of his sobbing parents, would haunt Bree for some time.
“It’s OK,” Adam said.
Sweat dripped down Bree’s back. “I’m almost surprised the house is still standing.”
It should have been razed to the ground.
“Old houses are solid.” Adam didn’t take his eyes off the house. “They don’t build them like this anymore.”
The three-bedroom, one-story bungalow squatted on a large chunk of mostly wooded land. A thick canopy of fat branches crisscrossed over the house, casting shadows between the tree trunks, the eerie landscape worthy of the nightmare that had occurred here.
Adam nudged her with an elbow. “Are you sure you’re OK with going inside?”
“Yes.” Her answer was automatic, not honest, and the lie burned like acid in her chest.
She would never be OK with what had happened in that house, but she had managed to mostly put it behind her.
Now, every instinct in her body told her not to cross the threshold. The memories on the other side were the monsters under her bed.
Adam closed his eyes for a few seconds. His face scrunched in concentration. “This place feels familiar, but I can’t remember anything specific. I can’t even picture her face.”
“I’m sorry.” The atmosphere felt familiar to Bree as well. Dread pooled in her belly. “You were just a baby when she died. I wouldn’t expect you to remember her.”
He turned to her. The yearning in his hazel eyes brought unshed tears to hers. As hard as Adam was trying to recall their childhood, Bree was working just as hard to forget it.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
No. Bree eyed the front porch. “Is it safe?”
“The structure is surprisingly solid.”
“You’ve been inside?” she asked.
He looked away and shrugged. “A couple of times. I fixed some stuff.”
Guilt weighted Bree’s shoulders. She should have come here when he’d first asked months ago. He shouldn’t have had to face this place alone. Though he stood a full head taller than her, he was still her little brother.
It was her job to protect him. Bree had failed their sister, Erin, and she had died. Bree could not repeat the mistake with Adam.
Her mouth went dry. She didn’t want to replay anything about the first eight years of her life, the years she’d lived in this place with her family—or the violent night that had ended that period. Once she entered, she would no longer be able to repress her memories. No more excuses. Since their sister had been murdered back in January, Bree had left her job as a homicide detective in Philadelphia, moved to Grey’s Hollow, and taken charge of her eight-year-old niece and sixteen-year-old nephew. Back in her hometown, she’d done her best to distance herself from her childhood tragedy. She’d never even considered visiting this house until Adam had asked. But her brother had stepped up to help with the kids. He’d done everything she’d asked of him, and he’d made only this one request in return.
“Let’s do this.” She stepped over the property line. Skirting a puddle, she strode toward the house.
Long-legged, Adam moved ahead. Thunderstorms had pummeled the area the previous week, and low-lying areas had flooded. Her brother’s strides were eager, while Bree’s feet dragged in the sole-sucking mud. Once, the driveway had been gravel, but the small stones had long since been ground into the earth.
Adam jogged up the stairs to the porch. Bree didn’t allow herself to pause until she stood beside him.
The porch boards didn’t sag under their weight. Some of the planks had been recently replaced. He moved toward the front door. Bree noticed the door, hinges, and lock were new. The doorframe had been repaired. How many times had Adam been here? Discomfort curled into a ball in her chest. She’d let him face the horror of their past alone. She’d let him down. She wouldn’t do that again, no matter what it cost her.
Something creaked. The hairs on the back of Bree’s neck bristled. “Did you hear that?”
Adam shrugged. “Probably the wind. It’s an old house.”
His reasoning was plausible, but Bree’s instincts weren’t happy.
He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.