The Runaway

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  THE RUNAWAY

  LISA CHILDS

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Lisa Childs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-5021-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5023-0 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-5023-5 (eBook)

  Prologue

  She had to get away. She knew that if she didn’t escape, she would wind up like the others.

  Dead.

  Or worse.

  But, in order to escape, she had to fight the elements, too.

  A bitter wind swirled around the rocky bluffs, blowing spray from the sea onto the rocks, leaving them slick and icy. The wind hurled shards of ice from the dark sky. The sleet stung as it struck her face and arms. She flinched, but she forced herself to keep moving up from the bluffs and the water, up the steep slope. She grabbed at the trunks of pine trees, bark biting into the palms of her hands while the dusting of snow already on the ground seared the bottom of her feet. That burning sensation spread up her legs, which were bare but for the damp hospital gown clinging to her thighs.

  The higher she climbed the louder the howling grew—not of the wind but of the coyotes. They yelped and then released high-pitched howls that sounded like screams of pain or terror.

  She held in the scream of terror and pain that clawed at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to reveal her location. The tracks in the snow would do that, though—would lead them right to her. She had to keep moving—had to run. But her legs were so heavy and the ground was so uneven and slick. And the sleet kept lashing down at her, blinding her even more than the darkness, stinging like needles.

  The needles ...

  She’d fought those. If she hadn’t . . .

  If they’d drugged her ...

  She wouldn’t have made it out of that dungeon of horrors. But she wasn’t safe yet—from them or from the coyotes. The animals called out to one another, their howls echoing in the woods around her, echoing off the bluffs and the rocks. They were getting closer and closer.

  The wind wasn’t the only thing rustling the trees and brush. Something or someone was following her and drawing nearer with each slip of her sole against the snow. She cleared the top of the bluff only to find the slope on the other side steeper and more treacherous. As she started down it, her frozen feet slipped from beneath her. She fell hard to the ground and a cry escaped her lips.

  She wanted to lie there in the snow, wanted to close her eyes. But they were too close. So close that they could probably hear her panting for breath and the mad pounding of her heart.

  Fear propelled her to move again, and she pushed herself up from the ground. Her legs, numb now, buckled beneath her, and she fell again. But she couldn’t stay down.

  If they found her, she would never be seen again.

  Chapter One

  The long bridge shuddered in the wind, creaking and groaning as the car traveled along it. The car shook as well, and Rosemary grasped the steering wheel in tight fists, fighting to keep the tires straight, fighting to keep the vehicle from blowing right off the bridge into the icy water below. The wrought iron railings were low and too spindly to provide any real protection for a car or a person.

  If someone had tried to walk across this bridge . . .

  She glanced across the passenger’s seat and over that railing to the icy water far below that swirled and frothed around huge outcroppings of jagged rocks. She didn’t want to think about what would happen to something or someone that fell from the bridge.

  But because of the rocky shore, the bridge was one of the only ways on and off Bane Island, which was located three miles off the coast of Maine. Helicopters could land on the island, too, but it was too rocky and uneven for planes. And ferries only braved the distance from the mainland in the summer when the waves weren’t quite as high and the water as icy. At least that was what Rosemary had discovered when she’d tried to make travel arrangements to Bane Island—to her sister.

  If only she’d gotten the message sooner . . .

  Her cell was tucked into the console of the rental car, charging. The weak reception drained the battery here just like it had when she’d been in New Zealand the past week. That was why she hadn’t played the message sooner—because she hadn’t even heard the call. Since the phone had been dead, it had gone directly to voicemail.

  Even if she had dared to take one hand from the whe
el, she didn’t need to play the message now to remember what it said. It played over and over again in her mind, haunting her:

  Rosemary ...

  Help me . . .

  Mom and Dad sent me away to this horrible place, and I’m scared. So scared . . .

  She hadn’t had to say it. Rosemary could hear the fear painfully in her voice, making it shaky and high-pitched. Nearly hysterical ...

  And even though she was a teenager, Genevieve was never hysterical. She wasn’t overly dramatic or emotional. Growing up in the same house as Rosemary had, it wouldn’t have been allowed.

  Because Rosemary had once been sent away, too, and it hadn’t been within the same state like the place where Genevieve was. Bane was just a few hours north of Portland where Rosemary’s family still lived. Rosemary did not.

  She shuddered just as the bridge did when the car traveled along the last few yards of the three miles of flimsy metal and finally struck solid ground. Rock-solid ground. The tires skidded over the slick asphalt, and she clenched the steering wheel even tighter. But she didn’t jerk it; she just gripped it and rode out the skid as the car careened dangerously close to the WELCOME TO BANE ISLAND sign. When the car straightened, she expelled a ragged breath.

  She wasn’t going to be able to help her sister if she crashed before she even found her. She knew where she was, though.

  They sent me to this treatment center called Halcyon Hall. More like House of Horrors ...

  Then her voice had cracked with sobs as she’d pleaded with Rosemary.

  Please come get me!

  The minute Rosemary had played the message she’d tried calling her back, but then Genevieve’s phone had gone directly to voicemail. Seeing the remoteness of this place, Rosemary could understand why. It was a miracle that Genevieve had been able to make the call at all.

  “I’m here,” she whispered into the cold interior of the car. “I’m here . . .”

  Genevieve wouldn’t be able to hear her, but would she sense it? Although Rosemary was so much older than her sister that they hadn’t grown up together, they were close. Despite not living together, they shared a special bond.

  So why hadn’t Rosemary known Genevieve was in trouble? What had the girl gotten into that Mother had thought it necessary to send her for treatment? Or had she just done that to get her out of the way for the holidays? Rosemary had chosen to go away on a trip, too, because she hadn’t wanted to come home to Portland for Thanksgiving—for the awkwardness that ensued whenever she was around her mom and stepfather.

  They had taken a trip for the holiday, too, leaving on a European cruise once they had shipped off Genevieve to what she’d called the House of Horrors. From what Rosemary had found when she’d googled the place, she didn’t think her sister was being overly dramatic now either.

  The history of Halcyon Hall, formerly known as Bainesworth Manor, sounded like the plot of a horror movie complete with a curse and the ghosts of the cursed. The place had once been a psychiatric hospital for young women whose families had committed them for treatment. Treatments that, even if she wasn’t a psychologist, Rosemary would have considered atrocious and inhumane. According to the articles she’d read, many of the patients had not survived those treatments, and legend claimed that for decades their ghosts had roamed the ruins of Bainesworth Manor. Even though the buildings and grounds had recently been renovated and advertised as a new age treatment center, its history and maybe its ghosts continued to haunt the property.

  She shuddered again in revulsion and because of the chill that permeated her sweater and the tights she wore beneath a long skirt. The rental car’s heater wasn’t overly generous, or maybe it just couldn’t keep out all the cold of this remote place with its miles of rocky shore, bluffs, mountains, and pine trees. But as she continued driving down the road from the bridge, she came upon a collection of buildings and houses and more streets intersecting the main one.

  Halcyon Hall wasn’t the only thing on the island. There was a town. She even passed a hotel as she continued down the street. Not that she was going to stay there or anywhere else on Bane Island. She intended to collect her sister and leave as soon as possible.

  First, she had to find the damn place, though. Since it was on an island, it shouldn’t have been that hard. According to the directions she’d downloaded before her phone died, the hall was on the main street that started at the bridge and ended at a pier that extended from the rocky shore to the water.

  She reached the pier without finding it, though, and when the tires skidded on the icy pavement, she nearly wound up driving onto the pier. Instead of riding out the skid, she twisted the wheel and swerved as she braked. The car slid toward the rocky bluff and the waves crashing against it. With a sudden jerk, it finally stopped, and Rosemary’s breath whooshed out with relief. Her hand trembling, she pulled her cell from the console. Even though the phone showed fully charged, nothing came up on the screen. There were no bars. No reception.

  She drew in a breath now and turned the wheel again, steering away from the pier to head back toward town. Someone there would be able to tell her how to find the hall. To reach town, though, she had to travel back along that long stretch of empty road with only pine trees lining it. The road didn’t remain empty for long, though. Before she reached town, lights flashed onto her rearview window and a siren pealed out, breaking the eerie silence.

  She hadn’t noticed the police SUV behind her or anywhere else along the road. It had appeared out of nowhere. And why was it now pulling her over? She’d done nothing wrong. This time ...

  But she dutifully pulled to the shoulder of the road, which was just a thin strip of gravel between the asphalt and the trunks of the pine trees. The police SUV didn’t pull over as far, nearly blocking the lane behind her. Then the door opened, and an officer stepped from the vehicle. He was tall, clad in a dark uniform and, despite the overcast sky, dark sunglasses as well. As he approached her side of the car, she fumbled with the unfamiliar controls to lower the window.

  “I’m sorry, Officer,” she said. “This is a rental, so I don’t know where everything is.” In the car or on Bane Island. Maybe he could help her.

  However, he stared at her with no expression on his face, his lips pressed in a tight line and his square jaw rigid. Finally he spoke. “Sheriff. I’m the sheriff.”

  Then why was he wasting his time making traffic stops? Not that there was any traffic on the road. Just her car.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she corrected herself. “I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”

  “You were driving carelessly,” he said. “You nearly went over the edge back by the pier.”

  “I slid,” she said.

  “You were driving too fast for conditions.”

  “I didn’t realize how icy the roads are,” she admitted. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though, since it was late November. Michigan, where she lived now, got snow and ice storms before winter officially started, too.

  “The roads are always icy this time of year.”

  Was he always icy? There was nothing welcoming about his demeanor, and he had to have guessed that she was not from Bane Island. He probably knew everybody on the island, and maybe that was the real reason he’d pulled her over—to find out who she was.

  Because his next comment was, “License and registration, please.”

  She reached inside her purse and pulled out her wallet. After taking out her driver’s license, she reached across the console for the glove box. “I don’t know if the registration is in here or not.”

  “This is fine, Ms. Tulle,” he said. And with her license in his big, gloved hand, he turned and walked back toward his SUV.

  The cold was blasting through her open window, but she hesitated to raise it. She didn’t want to piss him off any more than he appeared to be. She drew in a breath of air so cold that it burned her lungs. Even though it had proven ineffectual, she reached over and cranked up the heater. The fan rattled as
the air blasted from the vents. But the air wasn’t hot. It was barely warm.

  A cough startled her. She jerked against her seat belt before turning back toward her open window. “I didn’t hear you come back,” she murmured. And she hadn’t expected him so quickly. She held out her hand for her license and whatever citation he was going to give her.

  But he passed back her license alone. “What is your business here, Ms. Tulle?”

  “Halcyon Hall.”

  Behind those dark glasses, he studied her face for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

  “I’m here for my sister,” she said. “To pick her up from the treatment center.” She doubted Genevieve needed treatment for anything but Mother’s overprotectiveness.

  He shrugged, as if he didn’t care or didn’t believe her.

  “Can you tell me where it is?”

  “Here,” he said.

  “I know it’s on the island but . . .”

  He jerked his thumb behind him. “It’s here,” he said. “Behind those trees and the stone wall.”

  She peered around him. And now, stopped, she was able to study the trees and catch glimpses of rocks behind the trunks and pine boughs. “Oh, how do I get inside?”

  “Are you sure you really want to?” he asked.

  “I’m here for my sister,” she reminded him.

  He jerked his thumb farther down the road. “You’ll find the gate if you drive slowly enough.”

  “I—I will,” she assured him, and she waited for that ticket, which he must have realized.

  “I’m letting you off with a warning this time,” he said. “You need to proceed with more caution, Ms. Tulle. Much more caution.”

  Did his warning actually pertain to her driving or to something else? He didn’t clarify, though, just turned and headed back toward his SUV.