Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

He paused. And then: “Sara?”

“Rafe? Where the hell are you? Jen’s freaking out. She’s been calling me every half hour to see if I’ve heard anything.” Hearing Sara say his aunt’s name made him feel guilty all over again; he knew she’d be worried sick when he just . . . vanished like that. Still, there was no way he could have told her what he was planning. Or why.

But now he felt backed into a corner, he needed help. And Sara was the only person he could think of who might believe him.

“I had a dream.”

“What kind of dream? What does that mean, you had a dream?”

“It means sometimes my dreams are more than just dreams, Sara. Sometimes my dreams are real. It’s like I can see things before they happen.” He paused, wondering what his confession sounded like from her end. But he didn’t have time to worry about that. Not now.

There was a long silence, and Rafe wondered what she was thinking . . . or more likely, what she’d already done. He wondered if she was tracing this call yet. “Can you tell me about your dreams? About this one in particular?” she finally asked.

Rafe shook his head against the handset. “I will, but I need to see if I’m right about it first.”

“Can you at least tell me if someone might be hurt? Did you dream that someone was in trouble?”

Rafe pulled up the images from his dream, the ones that would be forever etched into his memory, branded into his mind’s eye. He flipped through them like photographs— quickly, only wanting to see the ones he needed for the moment, ignoring the ones that were too difficult to look at. He felt sick all over again. “I . . . I don’t know yet.”

“Rafe . . . please . . . don’t do anything stupid. Wait for the authorities to get there. Or at least wait for me; I’m on my way.” On the other end, he could hear her car’s engine, and he realized she must have been waiting for him to call, she must have had the trace already in place. That was the rub about knowing an FBI agent, but this time he needed her.

“Call Jenny and tell her I’m okay,” Rafe responded, and then he hung up the phone.

He stood there for a moment longer, at the end of the road where the small driveway began, staring at the dark outline of the house. He wanted to yell her name: Sophie! But he was too afraid she wouldn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Sophie used to say that they were connected, that they shared something stronger than just love, something that transcended this world. He’d told her that all that cosmic stuff was bullshit and he’d laughed at her for romanticizing everything.

But she hadn’t been wrong. Even when he’d turned it into a joke, he knew she wasn’t wrong. She was different—special—and they’d belonged together from the moment he first laid eyes on her, when she stopped in the hallway on her first day of school and boldly announced that they were going out on Friday night.

She’d already been hiding from her father then.

He closed his eyes, trying to find her, but there was nothing. He was afraid that whatever connection he’d once felt had been severed. And he was terrified of what that meant.

He started walking again, slowly, trying to remember how this was all going to play out.

The back door, he realized. If his dream was right, the back door would be open.

He prayed he was wrong.

He felt safe moving through the darkness, sheltered by the shadows that masked him, shielded by the night. He passed Connie’s car in the driveway, and felt a burst of panic when he realized it was the only one there. That doesn’t mean I’m too late, he reminded himself. Maybe I got here in time to change things.

But when he reached the back of the house, he knew otherwise. He moved up the steps, to where the rear door stood slightly ajar. Just as he’d known it would be. Just as he’d hoped it wouldn’t be.

Exactly like in his dream.

He didn’t stop to think about what this meant. He pushed the door and it opened silently as he slipped inside, setting his backpack on the floor. The air was still—stale—and once again, Rafe sifted through the mental images that had come to him in his sleep, flashing like unwelcome memories that didn’t belong to him.

Sophie’s dad showing up without warning.

Connie screaming at him to leave them alone as she positioned herself between him and the kids, Sophie and Jacob, yelling for them to run. To hide.

His fists. Relentless. Beating Connie until her face was bloodied and unrecognizable.

Sophie dragging her little brother out the back door. But to where? Rafe couldn’t be certain; they were no longer a part of the pictures in his head.

And then: the knife. Rafe hadn’t seen where it had come from. Had Sophie’s father found it in the kitchen, or had it been with him all along? But its appearance, even in his dream, had made Rafe shiver with icy warning and had given him a purpose: Get to Sophie. Save her!

That was all he had; that was where his dream had ended, when he awoke drenched in sweat and foreboding. He’d gathered a few items into his backpack, along with some cash and that fugly doll, and he’d left without telling his aunt where he was going. Or when he might be back. He hadn’t known the answer to either question.