The Break-Up Retreat(35)

A droplet of sweat runs down my scalp, ticking the back of my neck, and I choke back hysterical laughter.

And then, I freeze.

There. A sound.

Gravel, crunching. Right behind one of the cabins. The one on the left.

Weight shifting. Preparing to attack.

I have to run. Have to hide. But there is nowhere to go.

The main house.

Anna told me yesterday that there is always someone there. On the night shift.

Someone who is awake. Someone who can help.

I make a split-second decision. And I take off running.

The rocks are cutting into my feet, but I barely notice. I can hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t turn back. They’re far away, at first, but advancing.

Isobel.

My name. Like a whisper.

Is someone calling for me? Or is it only in my mind?

My vision grows blurry. If it’s from fear, or from the icy cold wind in my face, I don’t know.

The main house is getting closer. But not fast enough. The steps are advancing. It feels like a nightmare. My chest constricting, the stabbing pain under my ribs. Can’t get enough air. Can’t run fast enough.

I thought I was brave enough. Thought I was strong enough. I should have known better.

The small, weak thing inside of me was never going to outrun the thing in the dark.

A sharp, cutting pain in my foot, and I shriek, almost fall. Sheer will forces me to keep going. I’m almost there.

I see the faint light from the door on the other side.

Safety.

I need someone to see. Someone to protect me.

Someone. Anyone.

A wisp of a feeling. Like outstretched fingers, grazing my hair.

Reaching out.

To grab, to hold.

To crush.

To silence.

With one last push of adrenaline, my muscles screaming, and maybe I’m screaming with them, maybe I’m trying, but no sound will come, because I’m out of breath, I run.

I run, and I grab at the door, and swing it open.

Fall into the light. Fall into safety.

“Isobel?”





Chapter 19


Belinda stands up behind the desk.

I’ve fallen to my knees, and I hear myself babbling:

“. . . the door, you have to barricade the door, they were right behind me, you have to lock it or something, have to—”

“Hey, hey,” Belinda says, jogging out from behind the counter and up to me.

“Calm down,” she says, but I grab a hold of her arm and look her in the eyes.

“Please,” I say. “There was someone behind me. You have to lock the door. Now.”

Belinda stares at me. Then she nods, a short, quick movement.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do that, then.”

I hear her walking behind me. Hear the clicking of a lock, the slick sound of steel sliding against steel.

It should ease the tension in my body, should allow me to exhale. But I’m still shaking.

There are too many windows. Too many weak points. Too many places where someone could enter, if they wanted to, if they had decided to.

It’s all so fragile, after all. Walls and doors and windows. Held up by no more than a mutual, unspoken agreement.

A false sense of safety. A duvet against the monster under the bed.

“All right,” Belinda says, and she sits down on the floor, opposite me. Her legs fold neatly underneath her, and she puts her hands together on top of her thighs.

“What happened?” she asks me.

I just shake my head.

“Okay,” Belinda says. “Try to breathe. Here, do it like this.” She puts her hand at the bottom of her ribs.

“Put your fingers here,” she says. “And then breathe in until you can feel your chest moving with your hand, and then breathe out again. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I copy her movement, only now realizing that my hands are so cold my fingers hurt; I can barely feel anything at all.

But, nevertheless, I do as I’m told.

I fill my lungs with air, then push it out through my lips.

Belinda does it a few more times, and I feel sensation beginning to floor back into my body. The immediate, horrifyingly pinpointed clarity of adrenaline begins to ebb away, and I start to notice little details.

Belinda isn’t wearing jeans, anymore; she’s in a knitted, dove-gray cashmere set. She’s taken off her makeup, her cheeks red and her eyelashes pale, and her hair is in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

“Better?” she asks, and I nod, let my hand fall back onto my lap.

“Good,” she says. “It’s okay. Do you know where you are?”

“Yes,” I say, somewhat confused. “I’m in the reception. At the main building.”

“What is the last thing you remember?” Belinda asks me.

“. . . what . . . from when?”

“From before you fell asleep,” Belinda says.

I stare at her.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” I say.

Belinda smiles.

“Is this the first time you’ve ever had a sleepwalking episode?” she asks.

“I wasn’t sleepwalking,” I protest.

Belinda frowns. Her forehead doesn’t move, but her eyebrows twitch, and her eyes grow slimmer.