The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

leg. He’d done this to me. The memory lurked just outside of my reach, but I knew it with every cell in my body.

I lit another match and held it up to the crotch of my cargo pants. They were dark with blood. I screamed, pure rage filling every cell in my body. I didn’t know whether I abhorred him more for knocking me up or for knocking it out of me, but it didn’t matter. I loathed him with a hate as pure and deep as the darkness around me. If he’d stood in front of me in this moment, I would have killed him without a thought.

But he didn’t stand in front of me. I was in the throes of a miscarriage during a hurricane; I needed to focus on the present. I struck another match and waved it over the vanity, then the ledge by the window, where I found what I was looking for: a big white jar candle emblazoned with the name of the resort. I touched the wick with the dying match flame and the candle sizzled to life.

Shadows danced on white marble and reflected off walls of glass as I carefully carried my new light source to the door that led to the bedroom and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. My heart sank. Bathrooms weren’t supposed to lock from the outside. I assessed the doorknob, only to find a dead bolt that required a key. Why Cole needed a dead bolt on his bathroom wasn’t relevant. I was stuck, and I didn’t dare consider what he planned to do to me when he came back.

Did he mean to kill me? He could have so easily thrown me into the sea to drown after knocking me out, instead of locking me here in this bathroom. The fact that he hadn’t gave me a sliver of hope he wouldn’t when he returned. Without the fetus I carried, I had no proof anything had ever happened between us. Would my word be enough? He obviously thought not. Or perhaps he figured that without evidence and after experiencing how vicious he could be, I’d be too afraid to speak up.

He was wrong. I didn’t care anymore what it did to my career. I was more determined than ever to make sure that motherfucker never laid a hand on another woman. But to do that, I needed to survive. And that meant getting out of this godforsaken bathroom.

Gritting my teeth against the agony in my stomach, I set the candle on the sink and assessed my surroundings. The storm outside was fierce, and I could tell the ocean was high by the sound of the waves slapping the walls and the underside of the floor, but thus far the bungalow seemed intact. I had to assume Cole had gone up to the lobby to ride out the storm, so I ostensibly had some time to come up with a plan, if only I could think through this pain. I rummaged through his pill bottles, gladly downing a Vicodin with one of the half-empty water bottles that littered the countertop.

Mary Elizabeth whined. My blood-soaked pants stuck to my thighs as I squatted next to her and filled the empty soap dish with water, which she lapped up immediately. I grabbed the candle and wandered into Cole’s walk-in closet, where I selected drawstring gym shorts and the smallest pair of boxer briefs I could find, figuring I could fold a washrag inside to absorb additional blood. As I peeled off my pants and dropped them on the floor, I was surprised to hear a thunk. I dropped to my knees and fingered the fabric, extracting a small gray plastic brick from the lower-leg pocket.

Pockets are useful.

I recognized it immediately as the satellite phone I’d forgotten Rick gave me before he left this morning. How had I not felt it until now? As if in answer, a sharp pang cut through my abdomen. I flipped the phone open and held down the power switch. As the buttons lit up green, a ray of hope flared to life inside me. The phone was fully charged, the number for Rick’s parents’ satellite phone stored right where he’d keyed it in a million years ago this morning. Could it possibly work in this weather? I extended the antenna the way he’d showed me and pressed dial.

The line crackled as it rang and rang. Finally the voice mail clicked on, sending my heart plummeting. I left a jumbled message detailing my situation, then set the phone on the vanity with the antenna angled toward the window. Lightning flashed, illuminating the world outside for the first time. I gasped at the sight. The lower deck was completely underwater and white-capped waves crashed violently over the terrace beyond the window, only a step down from where I stood. In context it was shocking the floor was still dry; if the sea rose any farther the bungalow would most certainly flood.

I needed to get out of here before that happened. But how? And if I did succeed in escaping the bathroom, would the pier that connected the bungalows to the beach still be above water and intact? Sharp claws of fear sank into my skin. I desperately scraped the recesses of my brain for a plan as I wiped myself down with a damp towel and donned the clothes of Cole’s that I had selected, then combed every inch of the bathroom and closet for an escape route.

The closet was completely enclosed, but worst-case scenario had a high shelf about two feet wide that I could get up onto if the water got in and began to rise, and a decently solid step stool I could use to climb up. The door to the bedroom was crafted out of the same solid teak the rest of the bungalow was made of, but above it near the ceiling, a window about eighteen inches high ran the length of