Torn - Cynthia Eden Page 0,117

getting away from that bastard. He’d been choking her. The other woman had run, but Bailey hadn’t. He’d caught her.

And . . . he’d tossed her into a hole? She sat up, but couldn’t reach the top of that hole. Too deep. Bailey tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t hold her up, and when she grabbed at the sides of that hole again, the dirt just rained down on her.

Dogs were barking. She heard the sound distantly, and fear pulsed through her. Were those his dogs? Was this another game? Were the dogs going to attack her?

Bailey put her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound. She tasted the dirt that was on her fingers. Her tongue was so thick and swollen in her mouth. The nightmare wouldn’t stop. Everything just kept getting worse and worse.

The barking was louder. Closer. The dogs were going to get her. Would they rip her apart? Bite and tear into her skin?

She curled into a ball in the middle of that hole, trying to make herself as small as possible. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t make a sound, maybe the dogs would leave her alone. They’d go away, and then she’d find some way out of there. She’d escape.

The other woman . . . where did she go? What happened to her?

But the dogs weren’t going away. They were getting louder and louder. So close.

“Something’s over here!” a man shouted. “Dirt. Oh, hell! A pile of it! Could be a body!”

Her head lifted.

“Get the lights!” Another voice. Another man. “Follow the dogs!”

The dogs . . .

Maybe they weren’t there to hurt her. Maybe they were there to find her. Maybe the other woman . . . maybe she’d gotten away and sent help back to Bailey. “H-­help . . .” she whispered.

No . . . no sound had come from her lips. She’d tried to whisper but couldn’t. Her throat was too raw. Her mouth too dry.

The lights were flashing over her hole. Not in the hole, but flying over the top of it. People were up there. She needed them to look down at her.

“H-­help . . .” Another voiceless whisper. Inside, she was screaming. Roaring for help. But she couldn’t talk. She tried to stand up again, but her body wasn’t listening to her, not anymore. Too long without water? Without food? Too much blood loss?

Her hands curled around fists of dirt. Look down here. Look at me. Look!

A bright light hit her, falling straight into her face. It blinded her and she turned away.

“She’s—­she’s alive! We’ve got a live one here!” Excitement burned in that voice—­a voice with a heavy southern accent—­and then a man was there before her. He’d jumped into the hole, and he was reaching for her.

She flinched away.

“It’s okay,” he told her quickly. “I’m a deputy. Deputy Wyatt Bliss. You’re safe . . . we’re gonna take care of you.”

Bailey wanted to believe him.

More lights fell on her. So bright. She looked up and she saw the shadowy figures of other people—­men and women. They surrounded the top of her hole now.

“Can you tell me your name?” He took his coat off, held it out to her. Was it cold? Was she supposed to take the coat?

Her teeth were chattering, but she hadn’t noticed the cold, not until then.

She didn’t take the coat. She didn’t think her fingers would work and just keeping her eyes open was a serious effort.

“Your name, miss,” he continued, that drawling voice of his careful now, sympathetic. “Can you tell it to me?”

“B—­B . . .” Bailey. But she couldn’t talk. Just that sad croak was all she could manage.

His flashlight fell to her neck. Whatever he saw there made him swearing.

But then others were jumping down into the hole. More men with flashlights. They were in the hole with her and they lifted her out. Someone carried her a few steps forward and then—­then she was on some kind of gurney. Bailey craned her head and looked back. There were so many lights out there then, and the dogs were nearby, whining.

She saw her hole. Big and wide and deep. And a giant pile of dirt was beside it. A shovel lay forgotten on the ground.

Was that my grave?

“It’s okay.” It was a woman’s voice. Bailey jerked at that voice and at the soft hand that touched her shoulder. “You’re safe.”

She didn’t feel safe.

“I’m an EMT,” the woman continued. “And I’ll . . . I’ll get you taken care of just . . .” The woman’s voice trailed away. “Is all that blood yours?”

Bailey looked down at her body. Her shirt was soaked. Stained red, she saw in the light. Red and dirty. But was all the blood hers? I think so. Bailey nodded.

The scent of ash drifted to her. Ash and fire. What’s burning? Her head turned as she was loaded into the back of an ambulance. She saw the fire in that instant, big and red as it burned so hot and bright. But . . . was that the cabin? Her prison? Was that what burned like hell right then?

“The fire brought the deputies in,” the woman said, her blond hair in a bun near her nape, “it helped us find you.” The ambulance’s back doors slammed closed. “We found the other bodies first . . .”

No, no . . .

“And then you.”

A man was in the back of the ambulance, too. Another EMT. He had red hair and freckles across his nose. He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re safe.”

So she kept being told. But I’m not. I’m not safe. She needed to tell them about the other woman. They had to find her.

She grabbed for the redheaded man’s hand. Held tight.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning at her. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Bailey hurt everywhere, but this wasn’t about her pain. “Wo . . . man . . .” She mouthed the words because she just couldn’t speak.

His blue eyes narrowed on her lips.

“Wo . . . man . . .” She mouthed them again as her whole body began to shake. “Another . . . vic . . . vic . . . tim . . .”

His eyes became saucers. “Another victim was alive?”

She nodded.

“He had another victim with you?”

Once more, she nodded.

“Christ!” He lunged away from her and shoved open the ambulance’s back door. “Keep those dogs searching! There’s another woman out there!”

Bailey’s head sagged back and her eyes closed. She’d done it. They would find the other woman. She’d be safe, too.

They’d find her.

The ambulance’s sirens screamed.

And Bailey closed her eyes.