The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [152]
“My . . . what real purpose? I write books for kids. I told you that.” She zipped up her pack and stood. “What’s wrong with you? I don’t understand any of this.”
“Like hell.... You used the Rossinis to get to me, wormed your way into my life, and then casually drew a picture of my brother to get my reaction for whatever story you’re doing. I think your understanding is clear and very cunning.” As an afterthought—and his most damning complaint—he added, “And cruel.”
“You have a brother?” The veins in his neck engorged and his eyes went dead. “I didn’t know. I didn’t draw—”
“Right.” He spit the word out like a curse and with such fury and hatred in his voice that she should have been terrified. Yet, as sure as she knew . . . well, anything, she knew he wouldn’t touch her. “Get out.”
“Fine. I will.” Her ire rose to the occasion because she didn’t want to cry. Confused, frustrated, and hurt more than she might have imagined, she stomped down the stairs and marched toward the cliff path, keeping her spine straight, refusing to look back at him.
She didn’t get far before she heard him call out. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Home, you idiot, like you told me.”
“More games? Okay. I’ll play if it’ll make you disappear faster. You’re cold. You’re heading in the wrong direction. The path is back that way.”
“I’m cold? Well, if I’m cold, you’re . . . you’re frozen,” she hollered, slashing the air with her hands because she’d hoped for a better comeback. “ And I know where the path is. Contrary to what you may want to think, I didn’t fly over here on my broom, you know.”
“Ivy? I’m serious. Knock it off. Turn around and leave.”
“Make up your mind, Craig. Turn around or leave? Actually, you made your decision. You don’t get to pick anymore. And I pick leave,” she shouted, still heading for the cliff path. “I pick never seeing you again. I pick packing up and going home. I pick forgetting I ever met . . . you.”
“Ivy! Stop!” His order came too late—she already had. “Ivy?”
She stood staring . . . at the rocks, the foliage, the cliff, the sky, the trees, and the ornate wrought-iron bench she’d drawn the day before. Her heated blood drained from her face, leaving it cold and tingling—her fingertips throbbed from a surge of raw adrenaline when she began to comprehend that there was no cliff path. There was only the dead-end alcove, though in her mind she could recall every step of every trip she’d taken along the well-worn trail . . . that didn’t exist.
Her body was quaking as she turned, weak-kneed, back to the gazebo and Craig—to see if they really existed or if she’d made them up, too. There was no way she could make it back to them in time, to anchor herself, to keep herself from lifting off from the earth and into oblivion. She was alone, on the cliff, losing her mind....
Craig moved. To the bottom of the steps. To thirty feet away and then fifteen—but he didn’t seem to be walking, just flashing forward, toward her; it was taking forever. If only she could hang on till he reached her. Hang on. He was mad at her but he’d help her. He was . . . Craig. Craig the Dependable. Craig of the Everthere. The words echoed from a dark corner in her mind, over and over, attempting to soothe her.
Finally, he was there, taking a firm grip on her shoulders and shaking gently. “Ivy? What’s wrong? Can you hear me? Talk. Speak to me. Tell me what’s happening? Are you ill?”
Her head wobbled on her neck then settled on a nod.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me, baby, tell me what I should do.” He pulled her close, latched one hand to her waist, palmed her cheek with the other. She leaned back against his arm for support. He lowered his voice and spoke calmly. “What’s happening?”
She glanced back to make sure the path was still missing—then let him pull her face back to his. She clung to his moss green gaze.
“The path is gone. I drew a whole story in my sleep. I hear things and see things, but nobody’s there. I fall. All the time. In my