The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  Before she could raise the window, another noise startled her. This wasn’t a cough but a cry—a high-pitched, forlorn cry.

  Was it human?

  “What was that?” she called back to the sheriff.

  He stopped next to his vehicle and listened. Then his mouth moved, curving into a slight smile. “Coyote.”

  Shivering, she raised the window to shut out the cold and the cry. The sheriff got into his SUV but then just sat in it, as if waiting for her to pull away. So she did, slowly, just inching along the road until she found the wrought iron gate in the middle of the rock wall. Pine boughs stretched almost across the drive, obscuring the gate.

  Didn’t they want anyone to be able to find the place?

  The gate was closed, but an intercom system was mounted onto the stone wall next to the gate. She could have lowered the window again, but she wouldn’t have been able to reach the controls. So she opened her door instead and stepped out of the car.

  And that cry echoed around her, that forlorn cry. Her finger trembled as she punched the button on the intercom panel.

  “Halcyon Hall, how may we help you?” a melodic voice greeted her. The woman sounded upbeat and welcoming, completely opposite of everything that had greeted Rosemary since her arrival on Bane Island.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m here to pick up my sister, Genevieve Walcott.”

  “Your name?”

  “Rosemary Tulle,” she replied.

  A long silence followed, so long that she pressed the button again. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked. The wind kicked up, blasting icy bits of snow at her face as her long skirt swirled around her legs and her long hair whipped around her shoulders. She pulled a black strand from where it had tangled in her eyelashes and peered through the gate—at where a narrow driveway wound between more trees and rocks. “Hello?”

  The speaker cracked, and the voice sounded nearly as cold as the wind when it replied, “Ms. Tulle, you are not on the list.”

  “List?”

  “You are not on the visitor list.”

  “Genevieve called me,” she said. “She asked me to come get her.” Pleaded was more like it, desperately pleaded.

  “You are not on the list.” A click emanated from the speaker now as the intercom was shut off.

  Rosemary repeatedly jabbed the button and called out, “Hello? Hello? Open the damn gates! Open them now!”

  But the gates didn’t open, and nobody replied to her. Nobody answered her but the coyote that cried out again—so forlornly. Rosemary stepped closer to the gates and peered through the wrought iron. A shadow fell across the driveway on the other side. It could have been from one of the trees or the boulders. But the shape of it looked more human than that—like someone stood there, watching her....

  * * *

  The frozen ground crunched beneath the soles of his shoes as he walked across the grounds of the manor. Except that it wasn’t the manor anymore. It was a hall now. A treatment center to help instead of harm.

  But no matter how much renovation and remodeling had been done to the stone mansion and the other buildings on the property, the place would never fully escape the past. And no person would ever fully escape from Bainesworth Manor.

  He hadn’t.

  * * *

  Where was the cop—the sheriff—now when she needed him? As she traveled back to town, Rosemary didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of another vehicle. But then she hadn’t seen the sheriff either until his light had flashed in her rearview mirror.

  Instead of looking for him, she should have just dialed 9-1-1 while standing at that gate. But the shadow falling across the driveway on the other side had unnerved her, and she’d rushed back to the rental vehicle. That must have been how Genevieve had felt when she’d left that voicemail—desperate to escape.

  It wasn’t just the treatment center property that was creepy, though. The entire island with its rocky landscape was cold and forbidding with gray clouds hanging low, casting shadows over everything and everyone. Maybe that was all Rosemary had seen—just the shadow of a cloud.

  She doubted it, though. She’d felt someone’s presence ... until she’d jumped back into the rental and locked the doors. Ever since then she’d felt alone, as if she was the only one left on the island. No cars passed her; no people walked along the road.

  Then she drew closer to town, and a few cars drove along the streets intersecting the main one. She was not alone. She wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not, though—not here—on this godforsaken island.

  Despite the brightly painted clapboard exteriors of the old buildings lining the streets, the town didn’t appear any more welcoming than the rocky coast had as Rosemary had driven across that rickety bridge. Many of the awnings had been rolled back with closed-for-the-season signs posted on the front windows. She wasn’t looking for a place to buy souvenirs or fudge, though. She was looking for the police department.

  If the firehouse, a two-story brick building with a turret and fancy garage doors, hadn’t drawn her attention, Rosemary might have missed it. The flat-roofed one-story building was squeezed in between the firehouse and a two-story Victorian house with a diner sign dangling from the gingerbread trim of the front porch. Light shining from the windows of the diner cast a glow on the front door of the short building and on the sign, in the shape of a badge, that adorned the tall steel door: BANE SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

  A breath of relief slipped out of her lips and hung, like one of those gloomy clouds casting shadows over the island, inside the car. Maybe the heater had stopped working entirely. She didn’t reach for the controls, though. Instead she gripped the steering wheel and turned the car into the lot on the other side of the diner. Ignoring the DINER-ONLY PARKING signs, she pulled into a space. Her heart beating fast with fear for her sister, she pushed open the door and rushed toward the police department. As she passed the diner, the smell of roasting chicken wafted across the porch; her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was empty.

  She hadn’t eaten that day. She’d barely eaten since she’d played that message. Maybe once she got Genevieve out of Halcyon Hall, they would stop here before they left Bane Island. Or maybe Genevieve would just want to go home.

  Home...

  Rosemary’s stomach churned, but it wasn’t with hunger now. It was with dread. She didn’t want to bring Genevieve home any more than she wanted to leave her here. Determination surging through her, she pushed open the door to the sheriff ’s office and stepped inside the building. Not that she felt like she was inside when faced with another wall—with another door and window in it. She gripped the knob of that door, but it didn’t turn no matter how hard she twisted. So she stepped over to the window. A desk sat behind it—an empty desk.

  She tapped on the glass and called out, “Hello!” Urgency rushing through her, she pounded harder. “Hello! Hello!”

  A door behind the desk opened, and a man in the same blue uniform the sheriff had worn stepped through it. He wasn’t the sheriff, though. He wasn’t as tall or as broad, or maybe the sheriff had only seemed that way because she’d been sitting in the car. The officer pressed a button on the desk, and his voice echoed throughout the small reception area. “How may I help you?” he asked.

  “You can help me get into Halcyon Hall.”

  He gestured at the window with his index finger, making a pointing motion. She glanced around and noticed a speaker and button next to the glass—which must have been soundproof and probably bulletproof. The security was nearly the same as at the hall. Pressing the button, she repeated her request.

  The man’s mouth curved into a slight grin. “You and everyone else . . .” he murmured. “The hall is a private facility. We have no jurisdiction there no matter how much . . .” He trailed off again, leaving her to wonder what he left unsaid.

  “My sister is at the treatment center,” Rosemary explained. “But they won’t let me in to see her.”

  “You’re not on the lis
t.”

  She tensed. “How do you know that?”

  “You don’t get inside unless you’re on the list,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  She narrowed her eyes and studied the officer on the other side of that glass. He was younger than she was, probably still in his twenties, or maybe he looked that young from the fullness of his face. He wasn’t broad like the sheriff, but he was stocky, his belly straining the buttons of his uniform. “You know a lot about the hall despite having no jurisdiction there.”

  He shrugged and remarked, “Bane isn’t that big an island.”

  Not big enough to justify bulletproof glass in the police department ... unless it was a more dangerous place than it appeared, which increased Rosemary’s sense of urgency. “My sister called me to pick her up,” she said.

  He shrugged again. “Then she should have put your name on the list.”

  “I—I’m sure she did,” she insisted.

  He shook his head. “Then you would have been on it.”

  “They must be lying,” she said.

  “They?”

  “The hall—whoever picked up when I pressed the intercom button.” Like the button she pressed now—to speak to the officer. “They’re lying.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. They’re holding my sister hostage in that creepy place.”

  “People pay a hell of a lot of money to go there. They don’t need to hold anybody against their will.”

  “They’re holding my sister,” she said. “I have a voicemail from her to prove it.” But when she reached for her phone, she remembered she’d left it in the rental car—charging. She’d been so anxious to get help. She suspected the officer wasn’t interested in helping her, though. Maybe once he heard the voicemail . . .

  “I’ll go get my phone,” she said. “You’ll hear it in her voice—the fear. She wants out of that place.”

  “Why doesn’t she just check herself out then?” he asked. “Or better yet, why did she check herself in there?”

  “She didn’t,” Rosemary said. “Our parents put her in there.” So they could go on their vacation without worrying that she’d get in trouble ... like Rosemary had.

  His brow furrowed. “Your parents? How old is your sister?”

  “Seventeen,” she said.

  His lips curved again into another slight smile. This one felt patronizing. “Oh . . .”

  “She’s being held prisoner,” she insisted. “She was put in there against her will.” Just like the girls she’d read about, the ones who’d been committed to the manor all those years ago. “You need to help me get her out of there.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why won’t you help?”

  “Because it’s not a police matter, Miss,” he said. “It’s a family matter. You need to talk to your family.”

  “I tried,” she said. “The damn hall won’t let me through the gates.”

  “Your parents,” he said. “You need to talk to them. They must have a reason for admitting her for treatment and a reason for not putting you on the visitor list.”

  That dread churned in her stomach again. “I tried talking to them,” she admitted. She’d left voicemails for them like Genevieve had left for her. But they hadn’t returned her calls.

  He shrugged. “This is a family matter.”

  The door behind her creaked open, and a woman stepped into the small reception area with her. She also wore a navy-blue uniform. How many officers did this small island have? Just how the hell dangerous was it?

  “Can you help me?” she asked the older woman. Her face was softer and kinder than the male officer’s and certainly more so than the sheriff’s.

  Before the woman would answer, that voice emanated from the speaker again. “I’ve got this, Margaret. She’s here about the hall.”

  The woman’s soft expression hardened then. She juggled containers in her hands as she reached for the door Rosemary had tried opening just moments ago. The knob turned easily for the woman, and she pushed open the door to step inside what appeared to be an even narrower foyer than the reception area. Rosemary considered following her, but she doubted it would matter what she said to these officers. She wouldn’t be able to convince them to help her.

  Not unless ...

  But she wasn’t ready to share her secrets with strangers; she hadn’t even shared them yet with a friend. Most of the time she wouldn’t admit them to herself.

  The door closed behind the woman, locking Rosemary out again. She pressed that button again and asked, “Where’s the sheriff?” Maybe he would help her. After all, he had told her where to find the gate to the hall.

  “Sheriff Howell is not on duty tonight,” the male officer told her.

  “But—but he pulled me over just a short while ago—near the hall,” she said.

  The officer’s already small eyes narrowed. “He’s not supposed to be out there. . . .” Something about his tone implied that it wasn’t just because he hadn’t been on duty but for another reason, something to do with that damn place.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  His jaw tightened momentarily before he replied, “It’s a private facility, Miss. We have no jurisdiction there.” As if that was enough of an explanation, he stepped away from the glass, through the door that must have led back to where the female officer had gone.

  Rosemary could have hit the intercom button again, but she suspected that, just like at Halcyon Hall, nobody would answer her call for admittance. Nobody would help her. So she would have to figure out another way to get her sister out of that creepy place.

  Chapter Two

  A knock rattled the front door, startling Bonita so that she dropped the teacup she held. It struck the saucer with a clatter and spilled milky tea onto the tablecloth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tears glistening in her glazed blue eyes.

  Evelyn reached across the table and patted her sister’s hand. “It’s fine, honey.”

  Even now, all these years later, sudden noises frightened Bonita. That wasn’t all that scared her, though.

  Evelyn forced a smile for her sister as the doorbell pealed out now. Their visitor must have found it behind the brown ivy that wound around their house like bindings. Too bad the landscaper had moved out before taking care of the invasive vines. For a reduction in his room and board costs, Theodore Bowers had promised to take care of the grounds. Evelyn should have known better than to trust the young man, though.

  She should have known better than to trust anyone anymore. She squeezed her sister’s hand before rising from the table in the parlor. She walked through the open pocket doors into the foyer and drew in a breath before pulling open the door.

  She forced another smile for the stranger standing on the front porch. Evelyn knew everyone who lived on the island, and this woman, with her long black hair and bright blue eyes, was not a local. “Hello,” she greeted her. “How may I help you?”

  “Do you have a room available?” the woman asked.

  Evelyn hesitated. Theodore’s room wasn’t the only empty one in the house—the big house that cost a fortune for heat and electricity and property taxes. She couldn’t afford to turn away a prospective boarder no matter how much she suspected that she should, especially after the call she’d taken earlier.

  “The hotel in town is closed,” the young woman said, her voice cracking with frustration. Dark circles of exhaustion rimmed her eyes. Except for those dark smudges beneath her eyes, her skin was so very pale. “I don’t know where else to go.”

  “The hotels on the mainland are open,” Evelyn said, “if you’re just looking for a place for the night.”

  “I—I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” the woman replied. “I’m trying to get into Halcyon Hall.”

  “They don’t have any vacancies?” Evelyn asked.

  Color flushed the woman’s face now. “I—I didn’t think about just trying to check in.”
She thrust her hand into her purse and pulled out a cell phone.

  Instinctively Evelyn reached out and covered her hand. “Don’t,” she said, and her voice trembled now. “Don’t stay there. Stay here. We have a room available.”

  “Which one?” Bonita asked shyly as she joined them in the foyer.

  She was older than Evelyn, closer to seventy than sixty now. Even though her hair had turned a beautiful shade of snowy white, no lines marred her skin, which was pale like their visitor’s. Despite the white hair, she looked much younger than her age, younger than Evelyn, who only had one thick streak of white in her auburn hair. Evelyn felt no envy for her sister, though, only love.

  And pity ...

  “How about the rose room?” she asked.

  The young woman tensed, and her blue eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion. “That’s my name,” she said. “Rosemary. Rosemary Tulle.”

  “What a coincidence,” Evelyn said—of her slip-up which the woman had very nearly caught. “Then it’s meant to be that you stay in that room.” And not at the manor. Evelyn couldn’t call it the hall—because she knew what it was, what it would always be: cursed.

  Evelyn extended her hand to the young woman. “Nice to meet you, Rosemary. I’m Evelyn Pierce and this is my sister, Bonita.”

  Bonita didn’t hold out her hand, and she dipped her head down to avoid meeting the stranger’s gaze. She hadn’t always been like that—hadn’t always been so shy and scared. She’d once been effervescent and energetic and a little wild ... until she’d been sent to Bainesworth Manor.

  “Nice to meet you,” Rosemary replied as she shook Evelyn’s hand. She turned toward Bonita and warmly said, “Nice to meet you, too, Bonita. What a lovely name.”

  Bonita glanced up then, and a slight smile curved her lips.

  “And a lovely smile,” Rosemary added.

  Somehow she knew exactly how to treat Bonita—gently, with kindness, instead of ignoring her as so many others did. Maybe having the young woman stay with them wouldn’t be so bad ... and her money for board would help pay some of the bills.

  “Do you have any bags?” Evelyn asked.