Two. Three. It was Connie, her face pale and her eyes wide, a crimson puddle of her own blood crusted around her.
Four, five, six. More blood. Everywhere, blood.
Now was the time Rafe should call out for her—for Sophie—but his voice felt thick, his airway too tight to find enough space for it to pass. Nausea gripped him, making him suddenly dizzy. He wasn’t ready to know if Sophie could answer.
But it didn’t matter what he wanted.
Twelve. He slipped past Sophie’s mother, lying in the small living area, as he scanned the house, looking inside the tiny bathroom with a dirty tub and chipped porcelain sink, a linen closet housing an ancient hot water heater and only a handful of towels. Until he came to a closed door.
Blood rushed past his ears, and his heart hammered against the walls of his chest.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he pushed open the door. He didn’t know if he could do this, if he could handle what might be inside.
As he opened them again, he released a heavy breath. The sparsely furnished bedroom was empty.
Outside, he thought in a rush. They must still be outside.
He told himself not to look as he passed the dead woman in the living room, but it was impossible not to. He might not even have realized it was Connie, save for the bleached blond hair that was now matted with clumps of her own flesh and bones and blood.
At the back door, he hesitated again, listening to the night, hoping for a clue but picking up nothing. He strained against the godforsaken blackness, even darker back here than out at the road, where there was at least a break in the trees to allow the light from the moon overhead. But after a moment, once his eyes adjusted, he could see a break here too. Ahead, a small clearing had been carved out for a rickety-looking shed that stood beneath the towering trees, clutched in the grasp of barbed blackberry vines that threatened to consume it.
Rafe froze, suddenly unable to take another forward step. He was still unsure where Sophie’s father might be, and he’d already witnessed what the man was capable of. His lungs felt brittle, like they were made from crisp parchment and were no longer capable of true function. He waited there, trying to decide which need would cause him to move first: his need to breathe or this new, all-consuming fear that gripped him.
He had known death, and understood it; the dreams had helped with that. When his mother had gotten sick, when the cancer had metastasized, spreading violently throughout her body—unstoppable—he had known. He had seen what it had done to her, even when she’d tried her best to hide it…tried to keep it a secret from him.
He’d watched her while he slept—in his dreams—seeing what the drugs were doing to her as she cried and vomited, whimpered and pulled clumps of her own hair from her head. He’d watched night after night, seeing her lose the battle to the disease, along with her will to fight.
All the while, her brave front never faltered. She smiled and squeezed his hand whenever he came into the room, and he pretended not to notice when her fingers no longer had the strength to curl around his. Instead, he squeezed hard enough for the both of them.
And when he knew she couldn’t do it for herself, he gave her permission, whispering softly against the sharp bones of her too-thin cheek, “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be all right, I promise. Aunt Jenny will take good care of me.”
He had been there when she’d taken her last shuddering breath, releasing it on a ghastly sigh.
But he had never considered the possibility of his own death before this very moment, standing here beneath the dark Montana sky. He had never entertained the notion that he wasn’t indestructible. Until now. Now he felt differently. Now, after seeing the bloodied body of Sophie’s mother, he knew differently.
His dreams could be dangerous. He could be in danger.
He gasped for air, no longer able to sustain himself on sheer will alone.
That moment freed him and he found his stride again as his desire to find her—to find Sophie—was renewed.
His boots dug into the earth beneath his feet as he searched everywhere.
“Sophie!” He finally yelled, no longer able to stop himself. Desperation was clear as his voice cracked. “Sophie! Answer me, Sophie!”
He almost didn’t notice the soft scrape beneath his boot, the metallic scuff that he felt more than heard. It could easily have been a coin, dropped carelessly in the soil, but Rafe didn’t think so, and as he bent down to get a better look, his stomach recoiled.
It was hers. The necklace. The ring he’d put on a chain for her to wear.
His hand hovered just above it. He was afraid to touch it, afraid to let his fingers close around it.
If he touched it, if his skin made contact with it, he would know for sure.
But time was running out, and behind him, the far-off drone of sirens wailed, setting an eerie mood for what he was about to do.
He glanced up, to make certain he was still alone, and, closing his eyes, curled his hand around the ring, lifting it to his chest and clutching it there.
Electrical impulses caused him to convulse, like tremors coursing along every muscle fiber in his body. His eyes opened, rolling back in his head as the images began flashing inside his mind.
Flash. Sophie and Jacob, hiding in the shed. Cowering. Trying not to cry.
Flash. Their father splintering the door to get to them. The gun in his hand.
Flash. Sophie—the same way her mother had done—standing bravely between her little brother and her father.
Flash. Jacob running away, searching for cover beneath the canopy of the trees.
Then: the gunshot.
Rafe’s body jerked, as the sound from the borrowed memory exploded within him. He tried to loosen his fingers, to pry them apart, away from the ring, but it was too late, the images had come too fast, and he’d already seen them.
The siren screamed, louder now, almost upon him. He was suddenly grateful for an overprotective aunt like Jenny. And grateful that he’d already called Sara. He’d known, of course, that she would trace the call, and he’d expected her to send backup. It was what she did.
He knew, too, that when the police arrived, they would arrest him—he didn’t even need the dreams to know that much. They’d have no choice when they witnessed the gruesome scene inside the house. He was the only one here, after all, and they had to blame someone.
And Rafe would let them, staying silent, explaining nothing.
It wouldn’t be until Sara got there that things would get straightened out, that he’d tell her everything, about his dreams and what he saw in them. She was the only one who would understand.
Rafe clutched the ring, the images still assaulting him.
And he would tell Sara exactly where she could find Sophie’s father: hiding out at a cheap motel just off the interstate, less than twenty miles from this very spot.
But even without Rafe to tell them where the bodies were, the local police would have already found Sophie. And Jacob.
They’d never stood a chance against their father.
He tried to keep the images from flashing, again and again, but they kept coming, faster and faster now.
Flash. Sophie hiding the necklace in her hand, squeezing it and rubbing the steel furiously with her thumb, her eyes wide as she faced her father.
Flash. Sophie turning to run, stumbling. Trying to get away as her father raised his gun. Coldly. Unemotionally.
Flash. Sophie, her body going stiff. The necklace falling from her hands as she reached up to touch the wound that had opened up on her chest, where the bullet had ripped right through her. The disbelief on her face as she stared down at the blood glistening on her fingertips.
Flash. Sophie falling forward. Her eyes glazed and empty.
Rafe dropped to his knees as he heard car doors slamming and saw the flash of lights split the dark sky behind him. He hadn’t cried when his mother died or when Sophie had left, and he couldn’t seem to do it now either. But something in him was for
ever changed, he knew. Something in him had died along with the both of them.
He felt cold and bare. Exposed and abandoned.
He uncurled his fingers and looked down at the steel ring in his hand, not sure why he wanted to keep it. He half thought he should just chuck it into the woods and forget it—forget her—forever.
Instead, he slipped the chain around his neck. And as he heard the voices shouting, screaming at him to Get down! Get down on the ground, he tucked it inside his shirt, against the hollow space where his heart should be.
Want more of the Body Finder series? Read a free preview of the book that started it all here!
The Body Finder
Desires of the Dead
The Last Echo
Dead Silence
Also by Kimberly Derting:
The Pledge Trilogy
The Pledge
The Essence
The Offering
The Taking Trilogy
The Taking
The Replaced
The Countdown
ORDER YOUR COPIES TODAY!
About The Author
Kimberly Derting is the author of the award-winning The Body Finder series, The Pledge trilogy, and The Taking trilogy. She is also the co-author of the forthcoming picture book Luna and the Scientific Method!
Her books have been translated into 15 languages, and both The Body Finder and The Pledge were YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults selections.
She lives in the Pacific Northwest, where the gloomy weather is ideal for writing anything dark and creepy. You can find her at her website, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.
Skin Contact (Body Finder) Page 2
