The Retreat

The wind tore at my coat, pulling me toward the edge of the abyss. The ravine was a black mouth below us, waiting to swallow two more Hawthorne women.

"Julian," I said. My voice was whipped away by the wind, but he heard me. His gun was steady. His eyes were dead. "Don't do this."

"Come back inside," he said. "Now."

"He'll kill her," I said. "Arthur. He'll kill her and he'll kill you. You know that, don't you? Why do you think he's never let you see the books?"

Julian’s face twitched. A crack in the mask.

"He protects the family," Julian said, but it sounded rehearsed. A line from a script he had been reading since he was a child.

"He protects himself," I shouted. "He made you an accomplice, Julian! He made you a murderer by proxy! Do you want to be the one who pulls the trigger?"

I saw his finger tighten on the guard.

"Step back," he warned.

I looked at Margaret. She was clinging to the stone, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn't the strong matriarch I remembered. She was a frail, broken woman who had been erased for a decade.

"I can't go back," she whispered. "Please. Don't make me go back to the room."

I looked at Julian. "She's your mother."

"She's sick," he said. "She's dangerous."

"She's terrified!" I screamed.

The man on the floor groaned. He was trying to get to his feet, fumbling for his weapon.

I had seconds.

"Jump," I said to Margaret.

She looked at me, horrified. "What?"

"The fire escape," I said, pointing. It was ten feet away, a rusted iron skeleton clinging to the brick. "We can make it."

"I can't," she sobbed.

"You have to."

I grabbed her arm. I pulled her along the ledge.

Julian fired.

The bullet sparked against the stone inches from my foot.

"Stop!" he screamed.

I didn't stop. I shoved Margaret toward the fire escape. She stumbled, her bare feet slipping on the wet stone. She reached out, grabbing the iron railing.

She was safe. For a second.

I turned back to Julian.

He was in the window now. He had climbed out onto the ledge. The gun was leveled at my chest.

"I don't want to hurt you, El," he said. "Please. Just come back."

"You already hurt me," I said. "You let me mourn a living woman for ten years. You let me sign the checks that paid for her cage."

I looked down at the drop. Then I looked at him.

"You want to shoot me?" I asked. "Do it. But you'll have to explain to our children why you killed their mother."

He hesitated. His hand wavered.

And in that moment, I saw my chance.

Not to fight. Not to run.

To escape.

I didn't reach for the fire escape. I didn't reach for him.

I let go of the wall.

I let gravity take me.

I fell backward into the darkness, the wind rushing past my ears, the image of my husband’s horrified face seared into my retina.

I hit the slope of the ravine hard. Mud and rocks tore at my clothes. I tumbled, rolling over and over, crashing through brush and bracken.

The world spun. Sky. Trees. Mud. Pain.

I slammed into a tree trunk. The impact knocked the wind out of me.

I lay there in the wet leaves, gasping for air. My ribs burned. My head throbbed.

But I was alive.

I looked up. High above, on the ledge, a silhouette was looking down.

Then a flashlight beam swept the slope.

I scrambled into the undergrowth, dragging my bruised body deeper into the shadows.

I had seen the truth. I had touched it.

Now I had to prove it without getting locked up myself.