The Last Echo

She had no plan after that. She had no idea where she was or what she would do if he awoke. All she knew was that she had to try. There was no choice.

His smell—the harsh scent of scorched rubber—filled the room around her, and the volatile flavor of alcohol assailed her tongue. She ignored it all.

Still lying down, she dropped her leg over the edge of the bed. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for him to realize what she was doing.

The consequences wouldn’t be pretty, that much she knew. That much she’d witnessed.

She had to be cautious, steady, silent.

The inside of her lip bled from where she bit down, shushing herself. Her foot brushed the solid floor beneath her and her heart skipped. But she couldn’t be too optimistic. There was still a long ways to go.

She eased up, using her arm to lift herself from the mattress.

He slept so soundly—so peacefully—beside her that she half-wondered if he’d drugged himself as well. It was a ridiculous notion, of course. A hope-filled delusion.

As soon as she was sitting, dizziness swept over her. She blinked and struggled not to sway . . . not to collapse back onto the bed again. She fisted the sheets at her sides, waiting for her vision to clear.

After a moment, once her head cleared, she made some quick mental notes. The room was dark, but she knew the basic layout. Bed. Chest of drawers. Door.

That was the important thing: She knew where the door was.

Her bare toes settled on the cold floor beneath her and she tipped forward, gripping one of the canopy posts for support. A post that just hours earlier had held her immobile.

She swallowed, her parched throat aching and raw. Her heart beat so hard in her chest, she feared it might explode.

And then . . . she stood.

She took a tentative step.

And then another. And another.

She crouched now, feeling her way in the dark. Her fingers grazed the mattress as she used it as a guide. Each step was carefully plotted, her toes testing the ground ahead of her.

As she reached the bedpost closest to the door, she released it, suddenly lost in a sea of darkness. Yet she didn’t slow. She couldn’t slow.

She reached out, her breath catching as her fingertips brushed the wall and she feathered them along until she felt the frame, and then—with a silent sigh of relief—the doorknob.

When it turned, she nearly cried.

It wasn’t until the door was closed behind her that she felt her heart start again. It was less dark out here, in the hallway. Somewhere ahead of her, in one of the rooms beyond, a light was on.

It was faint, but unmistakable.

Violet crept forward on careful, noiseless feet. It was only then that she realized she wasn’t wearing her own clothes . . . that she was dressed in what looked like a child’s nightgown. It was old-fashioned and stiff, and the lace at her neck itched. She reached up to scratch it, freezing as she caught a glimpse of her hand.

Her fingernails were painted a familiar shade of pale purple.

Her stomach tightened and she forgot about the lace, her feet moving faster now, her thoughts crystal clear. She had to escape.

Like a moth, Violet flitted toward the light and found herself standing in a cave of sorts. Every window had been sealed, covered with mismatched sheets that had been cut apart and taped back together with long strips of silver duct tape. There was no way she could look outside . . . no way to see where she was.

She glanced around her. The home was as old-fashioned as the nightgown she wore. Most of the furniture was delicate: velvet cushions and carved woods with intricate, spindled legs. There were figurines and vases and painted chests. Things that could easily be antiques, she supposed, but seemed more like leftovers thrown together into one strange patchwork collection . . . much like the sheets covering the windows. Beside the brick hearth, perfect rows of firewood were neatly stacked.

The light itself came from a partially open doorway, and she hurried toward it, hoping they were alone, that it was just the two of them in this house. She hoped he didn’t have a partner.

She held her breath as she nudged the door open with her toe and found herself staring into the kitchen. It was small and cheerful, despite the black sheet covering the window above the sink. The appliances were avocado green, reminiscent of another era.

But there it was, sitting on the counter, the one thing Violet had been searching for: a telephone.

She could hardly believe her luck. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to survive this ordeal after all.

The old rotary dial telephone was the same kind her grandmother had once had, and Violet snatched it off the counter as she dropped to her knees, clutching the phone on her lap. She lifted the receiver to her ear and listened.

She waited.

She pressed the button on the base, the one that would end a call, jiggling it up and down.

But there was nothing. No dial tone. No sound at all.

She checked the back of the phone, suddenly feeling the floor drop out from beneath her.

It wasn’t attached to anything. There was no cord connecting it to the wall.

She leaned her head back, releasing a silent mewl. No, she wailed inwardly. No!

She had no idea how many precious minutes she’d already wasted, or how many she had left, but after searching as quietly as she could through the kitchen drawers, she realized she wasn’t going to find the cord. Not easily, anyway . . . and definitely not quickly enough.

There was only one choice: She was going to have to take her chances outside.

She didn’t have time to search for her own clothes, or for her shoes, so she grabbed whatever she could find.