"Your mother Caroline? I took care of her too."
Alta's voice echoed in the endless black, twisting from a sweet laugh into a manic cackle. The sound wrapped around Annalise's throat, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.
A scream ripped from Annalise's chest, raw and tearing. The pain of it was physical, a white-hot blade slicing through her ribs. Her mother. They killed her mother.
The blurry figure appeared again, closer this time. Lightning flashed, illuminating a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette. He was slamming his fists against the twisted metal of the car door, his movements desperate, frantic.
The void shuddered. A massive force slammed into Annalise's back, like falling from a skyscraper and hitting the concrete.
Annalise's eyes snapped open.
She shot upright, her mouth gaping as she sucked in huge gulps of air. Cold sweat plastered her silk pajamas to her skin, dripping down her spine. Her chest heaved, the frantic rhythm of her heart pounding so hard it bruised her ribs.
She wasn't in the car. There was no rain. No blood.
Her eyes darted around the room. The vaulted ceilings, the crystal chandelier, the soft cream wallpaper with the delicate gold trim. This was her bedroom in the Knowles estate.
Her hands flew to her chest, her fingers clawing at the fabric. No blood. No shattered ribs. Just the rapid, thundering beat of her heart under her palm.
The heavy oak door crashed open, banging against the wall.
Eddy Martin nearly broke the door off its hinges surging into the room, his large frame immediately positioning itself between Annalise and the doorway. One hand reached back to shield her, while the other pressed firmly against the grip of his holstered weapon, his sharp, alert eyes sweeping the room in a practiced arc. He checked the corners, the balcony doors, the bathroom entrance. Finding no immediate threat, his shoulders dropped slightly, his hand relaxing on the holster.
"Miss Knowles, are you alright?" Eddy's voice was calm, but the concern was evident in the way he stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face.
Annalise stared at him. He looked so solid. So alive. In her other life, the last time she had seen him, he was being escorted off the property by security, his face bruised, his badge ripped from his chest because Greggory had convinced her father he was a liability.
She reached out a trembling hand. Her fingers brushed against his jaw. The stubble was rough, the skin warm. Real.
Eddy stiffened, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He didn't step back, but his confusion was obvious. "Miss Knowles?"
She pulled her hand back, her throat too tight to speak. She turned her head, her gaze landing on the antique vanity across the room.
The calendar sat next to her jewelry box. The bold red numbers seemed to glow in the dim light.
October 14th.
The air left her lungs in a rush. That was the date of her 21st birthday.
She threw the covers off and bolted from the bed. Her bare feet slapped against the cold hardwood floor as she ran to the mirror.
The woman staring back at her was young. Her skin was unblemished, her eyes bright, lacking the hollow, dead look she had seen in her final moments. There were no scars from the steering wheel, no stitches, no bruises.
Caroline. They killed Caroline.
The thought was a poison that burned through her veins. Annalise's hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms so hard she felt the skin break. The sharp pain grounded her.
Eddy took a step toward her, his hand outstretched. "Annalise, you're scaring me. What is it?"
The coldness in her eyes when she met his gaze stopped him in his tracks. He had never seen that look on the sweet, naive heiress before. It was the look of a woman who had crawled out of her own grave.
"I'm fine, Eddy," she said, her voice flat and steady. She uncurled her fists, taking a deep breath that filled her lungs with the scent of her bedroom, not gasoline. "Get the car ready. The party is still on."
Eddy hesitated, clearly unconvinced. But the steel in her voice left no room for argument. He nodded once and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Annalise walked to the window. The sprawling lawns of the estate stretched out below, illuminated by the soft glow of the landscape lighting. Huge white tents dotted the grass, the catering staff buzzing around like bees.
And there, strolling through the rose garden like he owned the place, was Greggory Fitzgerald.
The sight of him made her stomach lurch. The fear was there, a reflex from the crash, but it was instantly swallowed by a rage so cold it made her shiver.
She turned away from the window and marched to her closet. She pushed past the racks of pastel dresses, the soft pinks and baby blues she used to favor. They looked like costumes for a fool.
Her eyes landed on the back of the closet. A dress she had bought on a whim but never had the courage to wear. It was a deep, blood-red silk, form-fitting and severe. It was the kind of dress that commanded attention, not affection.
She pulled it off the hanger and laid it on the bed. It looked like a weapon.
