I glanced back.
Hawthorne was a blur, easily twenty yards away, which initially gave me relief. Except I lost my footing a second later and fell, over a curb and into a mess of bushes.
I threw an arm over my face and let out a strangled cry as my other arm reached for freedom. My ankle was throbbing and my skin was burning from scrapes, but I pushed through, gritting my teeth through the pain. I couldn’t let Hawthorne catch up to me now. Rolling out of the bushes, I placed my hands on the ground and pulled my feet up under me.
I put weight on my feet and stood, fumbling right back down to the sand. Fuck fuck fuck. I couldn’t stay here, I couldn’t lose. I ground my teeth together and pushed back up, hearing Hawthorne’s steps approaching.
I pushed to standing again and stayed there. Anger fueled me as I continued down the path to the beach. My leg limped and ached, and each odd step of my run put more painful pressure on my leg. I passed a handful of people wrapped in blankets near the beach.
Tears pooled in my eyes as I was forced to slow. I was on the pier, my goal the entire time. I coughed relief and immediately sucked in breath. I was so close.
I pictured Mira, telling me to fight for what I wanted. I wanted this so badly, I could taste it. My teeth were clamped tight on my lips, opening the wound that I’d made a week earlier. I tasted blood.
I turned around, saw Hawthorne. I backed up into the railing. It put me in a vulnerable position, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand with my ankle.
He approached slowly, his eyes narrowed. I knew that look. It brought back suppressed memories of the things he’d done to me. My eyes burned with white-hot anger.
“You killed my mom,” I growled.
He stopped walking. “She killed herself.”
I spit in his direction, telling myself to let the hate take over. To not succumb to the pain I was feeling, physically and emotionally.
“You were bankrupt and you killed her for her money.”
Hawthorne looked around, as if he worried others would hear us. The pier was empty at this end. It seemed to appease him because when he looked back at me, he was settled.
“But I didn’t get her money.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I did.”
He tilted his head. “But you don’t have it, do you Cora?” He walked a step closer to me and I pushed off the railing.
“No, but neither do you.”
With a lifted eyebrow, he said in an even voice, “Oh but I will.”
I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, let his tone strike fear in me. Not now. I backed up a step, my legs feeling shaky from the run and the fall. “What, are you going to kill me?”
His smile was calculating. “Of course not. You’ll go the same way your mom did.” He angled his head towards the water below the pier. “You ran away from me because you missed your mom,” he said easily. He took another step closer. “And you’re ready to leave this world just like she did.”
His confidence was revolting. “She didn’t leave by choice,” I spat. I flexed my hands, stretching them in the cold air. “I won’t either.”
All it took was his next step closer to me before I lunged, rapping my hand hard against his throat.
His eyes bulged and his hand came up to clutch his neck. I took the opportunity to knee him between his legs and bring my hands up to his head, feeling for his pressure points.
Our faces were inches apart as I pressed into his skull. He released a breath that blew across my lips.
Cherry vodka.
Scent was the strongest sense tied to memory and I believed it in this moment as memories flashed of all the times I’d smelled that smell. And it was then that I felt fear, true, bone-chilling fear. This man killed my mother, abused me for years and now he wanted me dead.
The memories instantly weakened me and my hands fell from his head. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on the pier. Hawthorne climbed over me, one hand on my mouth and the other clamping my wrists together. His weight pressed me into the boards.
His hand on my mouth. My stomach clenched, reading to purge its contents as a memory tried to break through again. I twisted my head, back and forth, trying to bite.
The hand over my mouth moved away, but before I could shout, that hand moved to my throat, squeezing hard enough to crush.
I was panicking, my thoughts weren’t clear. My wrists were trapped tightly and my air was being choked off. I couldn’t think about anyone or anything. I knew each second was bringing me closer to unconsciousness and I was helpless to stop it.
And then I felt the prick at my throat. The charms on my necklace.
Julian, I thought. My brain kick-started, surging one last burst of energy through my body.
I twisted my hands in Hawthorne’s grasp at the same time as I brought my knee up between his legs again.
He grunted and shifted his weight, freeing my legs which I used to start thrashing, shifting him further off of me.
I gasped when his hand finally left my throat. He was still over me, breathing on me.
I lifted my head hard enough to hit his. My head instantly registered the ache at the crack of our skulls, but he’d let go of my hands which I used to deliver repeated hits to his face.
I tried to yell, but nothing could come. Tears burned paths down my face but I pushed harder, hit harder, until I was able to push his weight off of me completely. I rolled away to my feet but my ankle was completely unstable, so I slumped back against the railing as he pulled himself to his knees in front of me. I was shaking now, my entire body feeling the effects of exhaustion.
I gripped the railing in my hands and lifted my leg to hit him, but he intercepted, grabbing my leg and wrenching it another direction. I felt the knee pop out of its socket and I screamed, a silent, choked sob. Fire ripped through my body, burning a path up and down my leg. The tears came harder and my throat ached to release the cry that choked my breath.
I was at his mercy, with my dislocated leg in his hand. And he knew it. He wrenched it harder and my body was overcome with shakes.
I heard the flick of a knife.
No, no no.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized my own mortality. I lunged, reaching for the knife in his hand, eventually knocking it from his grasp. I heard it skid across the wood planks and I dove for it.
My left leg was completely useless. I pulled myself up to lean once again against the railing, the knife in hand, trying to catch my breath.
But, before I knew it, he had lunged for me, sending us both over the railing. Just before we hit the water, I heard sirens.
Hitting the water from that height wasn’t the most painful part of the fall. It was the cold itself. Early December ocean water was shockingly cold. I couldn’t move, my body paralyzed by the shock of the fall and the temperature of the water. My mind raced but my limbs were still.
Hawthorne recovered more quickly that I did, wrapping a hand around my loose hair and pulling me tightly to him.
I yanked my head, finally feeling my body come to life again. I tried to free my hair from his grasp.
I pictured Mira again, remembered what she’d told me.
With every part of my body screaming in pain and my lungs tightening as I ran out of air, I brought my hand forward and drove the knife into his neck.
It was a good hit.
His mouth was wide open and his eyes searched mine, his face an expression of frozen terror. Red blossomed around us in the water, surrounding us both.
My heart beat slowed. My lungs stopped aching.
Hawthorne was dead. I’d killed him. After everything he’d done to me, after what he did to my mother, he was just…gone. I was free.
That’s when I blacked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
~Julian~
After the doctor left the room, the police came in.
I was weary, so weary. The only thing I wanted more than Andra to wake up was to lay down.
; They asked me questions I couldn’t answer. I showed them the voice file Andra had emailed me. I told them about the journals at the house.
Ultimately, this was pretty cut-and-dried self-defense. But when you factored in that Andra was a missing child, there were more loose ends than answers.
Hours after the police left, Dr. Stephenson entered the room again, this time with a cup of coffee.
I hated coffee. But I took it anyway, grateful for something to warm my hands. “Thanks,” I murmured.
Dr. Stephenson nodded and checked Andra’s vitals. “You should get some rest,” she said while writing something down on her chart. “It’s now a waiting game.”
I smelled the coffee but ultimately set it down. “How long will she be in the coma?”
Dr. Stephenson turned to look at me. “It depends. We’ll monitor her and run tests and scans. It might be a few days still.”
I nodded and looked down at my hands. “Was there anything else I could have done?” There it was, the thing that plagued me the most. A thousand things I should have done.
I should have gone after Hawthorne myself.
I should have held her closer to me when I felt her distancing herself. I almost laughed at that thought. My beautiful girl was fiercely independent. I couldn’t cage her.
I should have trusted my instincts.
When I called the library looking for Andra, I should have called the police.
I should have run faster down the beach. The pier, though only a five minute run from the beach house, had felt miles away.
I should have kept running when I watched, in sheer horror, as she was yanked over the side of the pier by Hawthorne, with Hawthorne. Instead, I’d stopped a dozen yards from the pier and watched him pull her under.
“Julian.”
I lifted my head, brushing aside the regrets for a moment.
“There was nothing you could have done.” Dr. Stephenson walked towards me and put a hand on my shoulder. “I meant it when I said you saved her.”
I couldn’t sit here anymore. I needed to get in touch with people.
I stepped out into the hall and called Six first.
“What the fuck are the police doing at the house?” he asked upon answering.
“Andra is in the hospital.”
“What? What happened?” I heard tires squealing on his end of the line.
I gave him the brief rundown, my heart weighing heavily in my chest.
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I dialed my father next. He’d been the one who sort of introduced me to Andra, after all.
“J. How is she?”
I was thrown off. “What?”
“It’s all over the news here. I’m on my way to Oregon now.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved. “She’s stable. In a medically-induced coma. They’re running scans.”
“And the uncle?”
I repeated what the officers had told me. “Dead.” I closed my eyes, feeling like I was losing a grip on my sanity. My beautiful, brave girl.
“Have you been questioned by the police?”
“Yeah, hours ago. I’m guessing they’ll be back shortly.”
“Okay. Listen, I’m pulling into the airport now. I’ll be there tonight.”
“Great,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, J.”
As I hung up, Six came like a hurricane down the hallway. I angled my head to Andra’s door and followed him in.
I watched as he walked to the side of her bed and crouched down, and I was struck by how similar they looked now, with his face etched in grief.
He looked to me. “What have the doctors said?”
“Medically induced coma for now. Her doctor says it’s a waiting game. They don’t know how long she was under water or what damage that has caused.” It hurt to talk about her so clinically.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “She’ll pull through,” Six said, more for himself to hear. He looked to me, nodded, as if he needed me to agree.
I tried to leave the hospital to get my father from the airport, but the parking lot was surrounded with reporters. “J.J., what is your connection to Cora Mitchell?” one reporter yelled, thrusting a mic in my face. I cursed my publishers for insisting on including an author photo on my books.
“J.J. is this research for your next book?”
I wished I could have punched the person who asked that.
When my father made it to the hospital, I felt a little more human.
We waited by Andra’s bedside as one day turned into two. On the third day, the doctors started bringing her out of the coma. The doctors expected another day or two before she could start responding, if she was able.
I walked the corridors of the hospital at night, wishing a million wishes and bargaining a million things.
I ached to see her smile again. To hear her laugh, to listen to her banter with me. To feel her skin tremble beneath the touch of my hands.
Each night, I held her hand and prayed in silence, the way I’d seen her pray before.
Six paced the room, in and out. The officers made their visits less and less frequent, which seemed to calm Six down a little. But I knew he worried still.
I felt like that was all we did.
My father seemed confident that Andra wouldn’t be charged with anything. While it relieved me, I was more concerned with her pulling through this.
On the fifth day, we stayed put in her room, waiting.
We took turns holding her hand, talking to her, trying to get some response.
That evening, it was my turn. I reached in my pocket, pulled out the necklace that had been removed upon her arrival to the hospital. I held it in my hand, seeing the glint of the star and the anchor. I brushed her hair from her shoulders and reached the clasp around her neck, securing it to her once again.
I pulled a chair up the bed and held her hand in mine. I talked to her about my books and promised her a hundred jars of olives when she woke. As the night wore on, my voice faltered a bit and it was all I could do to keep my emotions in check. My eyelids were heavy, but I couldn’t sleep.
My eyes traveled her face, relaxed in sleep and less swollen than before. They moved to her throat, where yellow bruises dotted her skin. But on top of those bruises was the necklace I’d given her.
I reached for it almost in a trance. My fingertips grazed the points of the star and the curves of the anchor. She was right, I was her anchor. And all I wanted to do was anchor her to earth.
“Andra,” I whispered. My father and Six were asleep on the couch in the corner and the lights were lowered, signaling the lateness of the evening.
“Andra,” I said again. “I followed you, my North Star. Come back to earth, my love.”
I didn’t hold my breath for a response from her, but I still felt a small stab of disappointment when there was nothing.
I squeezed her hand. “Let me be your anchor.”
I waited a few beats, feeling her pulse under my fingertips. And then I felt it.
It was weak at first, just the slightest pressure of movement in my hand. I squeezed again. And then she squeezed harder.
I didn’t think my chest could contain the swell of my heart. “Oh, Andra,” I whispered. “Squeeze again.”
It took a few seconds but the squeeze came.
I squeezed again, feeling my eyes start to water in relief.
She squeezed again.
Then she opened her eyes.
EPILOGUE
~Andra~
The room was bright. And opening my eyes was a struggle. But I did it, for him. For Julian.
He was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. I had to close them right away, but I reopened them, seeing Julian again. His eyes were wet and his was smiling the widest smile. I ached to smile too. But every single movement required great effort.
“Andra,” he breathed.
I swallowed and grimaced. I wanted to speak, b
ut my throat was sore.
“It’s okay.” He squeeze my hand reassuringly.
I heard the beep of machines that reminded me I was in the hospital.
I closed my eyes and drifted back into sleep.
When I reopened them, the room was brighter and Julian was still holding my hand. My eyes moved over Six, who stood directly at the foot of the bed, staring at me. Exhaustion and relief warred on his face. My heart thumped hard in my chest.
“Andra.” I turned my head, wincing. A woman in a white coat smiled down at me. “You’re awake,” she said softly. “Can you do me a favor?”
I opened my mouth. “Yes.” It didn’t sound like my voice, but I knew it came from me.
Her smile spread. “She speaks.” She clasped her hands together. “I was going to have you cough, but you had to be an overachiever and actually speak.”
A smiled tugged my own lips. I looked at Julian. My anchor.
I lifted a hand to my neck, keeping my eyes on his. My body felt a little drunk, and my limbs seemed heavier than I remembered, but I managed to touch the necklace at my throat. The necklace that had centered me when I was being choked on the pier. Julian was my anchor.
He saved me.
The End
Joshua said to them, "Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Be strong and courageous. This is what the LORD will do to all the enemies you are going to fight."
Joshua 10:25
Acknowledgements
I don’t want to use my acknowledgements to thank the people who were helpful to my journey for this book alone. My writing career as a whole is better for the friendships I’ve made throughout each book, each idea. So these acknowledgments will be long!
Many thanks to my husband for taking over parenting duties for many nights while I slaved away in my writing cave. And thank you to my sweet baby boys for loving me even when I’m not around as much as I’d like to be.
My mom made me write this sequel to He Found Me. Thank you mom, for showing me that I never, ever, want to write another series. Ever. Ha!
He Saved Me Page 17
