Into the Devil's Underground by Stacy Green Page B

watched the tears fall. So many shed over Claire and Evan. But Emilie had locked that old pain away a long time ago. She would not allow it to resurface.
    She snatched a tissue out of the dispenser and hastily cleaned her face. Claire is a vindictive shrew. This was her chance to lash out at you for disrupting her perfect life. Don’t let her win .
    Emilie examined the ugly bruise on her cheek. Her pale skin was more flushed than usual. What was it Creepy had said about her skin? And something about children and how precious they were? About how important it was children were protected?
    Her lungs constricted. Her breath came in quick, painful gasps. Creepy had said she should know what he meant about the sin of mistreating children, as though he knew about her family misery, something she hadn’t spoken of since leaving Portland.
    How did he know? How deep into her life had he dug?
    How long has he been following me?
    Her vision began to blur. Disoriented, she felt along the textured wall until she reached the metal door handle.
    Dark shapes loomed in the hallway. Emilie cowered against the door. One of the shapes approached. It reached for her and called her name. The words were muffled by the roaring sound in her ears. Her chest ached with fear, her lungs tight.
    “Leave me alone,” she cried.
    “I can’t do that.” The blob was directly in front of her now. “Let me help you.”
    A hand reached out, its fingers coming to rest on the arm that was now pressed in front of her face.
    Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. A bloodcurdling scream tore through the hallway—her own.
    Fight or flight.
    She wrenched the hand off her arm, her fingernails digging into flesh.
    “Ouch! Emilie, stop. You know me.” The voice was masculine, husky, and tinged with emotion.
    “It’s Nathan. Remember me?”
    She knew him, didn’t she? She searched her cloudy mind, dredging up the man with blue eyes and a gunshot wound in his arm. “Nathan?”
    “Yes. You’re safe. You’re at the police station. Open your eyes.”
    Emilie cracked one eye open. Nathan’s features came into view: broad shoulders; a scruff-covered, angular jaw; striking blue eyes.
    He stood in front of her, worry etched on his handsome face. Behind him, several officers gawked. She’d drawn a crowd.
    Emilie took a step forward. Dizziness threatened to overtake her, and she stumbled. Nathan caught her by the arms. His hands were warm and rough with calluses.
    She spoke into his broad chest. “I need to get out of here.”
    “You need to sit down.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve calmed down.”
    “I just want to go home.” She pressed her hands against her ringing ears.
    Nathan touched her shoulder. “Please sit and calm down first.”
    She didn’t have the energy to refuse him. Nathan steadied her as she wobbled to a nearby wooden bench.
    “I’m not crazy.”
    “Of course not. You’re traumatized.”
    Emilie hated that word. It made her feel like a victim. “I don’t know what happened back there.”
    “Take some deep breaths,” Nathan said. “Focus on that for a minute.”
    She obeyed, counting her breaths.
    Nathan patted her back. His hand was warm and steady. “You looked like you were having a flashback.”
    The significance of Creepy’s words sent her reeling again. She clutched the edge of the bench to keep from falling face-first onto the floor. “He knows about my past, about my parents. He knows me.”

9
    N ATHAN STRUGGLED TO think of the right response as Emilie rocked back and forth on the bench. He was afraid she’d tumble off if he let go of her arm.
    “Did you hear what I said?” Emilie demanded.
    She looked worse than she had last night. The bruise on her cheek had darkened into a vibrant purple. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she had gotten little rest. A tear clung briefly to the edge of one of her long eyelashes before losing its grip and slipping down her cheek. The moisture