Go Hunt Me - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kelly deVos is from Gilbert, Arizona, where she lives with her high school sweetheart, amazing teen daughter, and superhero dog, Cocoa. She holds a BA in creative writing from Arizona State University. When not reading or writing, Kelly can typically be found with a mocha in hand, bingeing the latest TV shows and adding to her ever-growing sticker collection. She is the author of  FatGirl on a Plane, Day Zero, Day One and Eat Your Heart Out. Visit Kelly online at kellydevos.com.

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You're safe here.

That's what the nurse told me when I arrived at St. Constantin's.

But still.

Every time the wheels of the hospital cart squeak on the freshly mopped tile floor. Each time the orderlies whisper to each other in the hallways. When someone drops a lunch tray or coughs or clears their throat. I flinch and the heart monitor beside my bed beeps frantically.

I can't sleep.

Can't close my eyes for a second.

Every time I do, I see Jax's face.

It's the details that give me nightmares.

The castle turrets that were the same scarlet color as the dried specks of blood I can't pry out from underneath my fingernails. The thin branches of the gray alder trees that twisted around my limbs like endless tentacles. The rustling leaves that concealed a conspiracy of whispers.

I can't stand to be in the dark. For the dead travel fast.

When they found out where I'd been picked up, a look of understanding crossed their faces. They'd heard stories about Castle Prahova. The doctor who spent all morning digging shards of glass out of my scalp told me the private estate about fifty kilometers north of Braov was a place that inspired legends. It had been the home of medieval warmonger Vlad Dracul, the real-life inspiration of the fictional character Dracula. The locals believed that the monsters of Prahova were more terrifying than what made it onto the pages of Bram Stoker's novel.

Of course, I already knew that.

It was Dracula and his legends that drew us to Romania in the first place.

But we didn't know that the castle had a more recent history of unsolved crimes and unexplained accidents. People went missing. Bodies washed up on the bank of the river that cut across the countryside and ran along the base of the sharp cliffs that bracketed the castle. For years, the place was owned by a drug dealer who used it for storage and operations. The Romanian police spent the better part of two decades relentlessly chasing a cartel across the always foggy, dense forest.

But even the farmers who knew the castle by reputation were shocked when our flaming utility cart crashed into the wooden fence outside of Rupea and I dragged Reagan's bloody body out into the wet, muddy road. Six dead American tourists. The Poliia Rom‰n sent a team to recover the remains. I don't know what there will be left to find.

Anything left of my friends.

My hand always feels empty. As if it will always be trying to reach out and pull Hazel from a pool of dark black water. I force my eyes open and stare at the greenish hospital lights.

You're safe here.

Dr. Fieraru says that my mother caught the red-eye from Phoenix. The police will send a car to the airport and she'll come to take me home. When I'm able to check my phone, I see all the alerts about Justin Bloom. In LA, the police are hunting for the famous film director.

Wanted for questioning.

A while later, as I am reading the same page of the hospital magazine for the hundredth time, a short woman wearing a floral-print dress and with her long, dark hair in a neat braid knocks lightly on the open door of my room.

"Alexandra Rush?" she says in a calm, pleasant voice.

The chirps of my heart monitor increase in pace.

I nod.

She enters with soft footsteps and says, "Please do not be alarmed. I am Police Inspector Ana Skutnik. I understand you already spoke to the police yesterday after you arrived at the hospital. Do you feel up to answering some additional questions?"

Truthfully, I do not feel up to it. I'm not sure I will ever feel up to it. But everyone will want to know the story of what happened, and I am the only one who can tell them. Our families deserve answers. From me.

Again, I nod.

Inspector Skutnik offers a comforting smile and takes the beige leather guest chair to my right. She leans forward, placing a small device in front of me on the overbed table. "If it is all right with you, I will be recording this interview. May I call you Alexandra?" she asks.

"Alex," I croak out. "My name is Alex."

I pick at the cast covering my broken arm and try to avoid scratching at the jagged, crisscrossed black stitches that bind the cuts all over my legs.

She nods. "I have a copy of your statement here. But I am hoping to get a fuller, more detailed picture of what happened. Particularly to gather information that might help the team at Prahova as they search for . . ." Her smile falters.

As they search for bodies.

Don't close your eyes.

I shiver.

"Okay," I whisper. My heartbeat slows. I'm so cold. So almost dead inside.

She smiles again. It's a motherly expression. "Let us start at the beginning."

I notice that the policewoman has a soft leather case she rests on her lap as she pulls out a handful of papers. For a minute her eyes glide over the printed pages.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

Her eyes linger on the marks around my neck. "Only the truth."

"The truth is messy," I say with a sigh.

Inspector Skutnik reaches for the water pitcher on my table and refills my Styrofoam cup.

"Okay, Alex. Tell me. What brought you to Romania?"

153 days ago

EXT. PARADISE VALLEY-NIGHT-ALMOST HALLOWEEN

Mummy Mountain was silent and still and dark.

I was late. Nothing new about that. Since Dad got sick, I was late all the time.

For everything.

The enormous silver punch bowl on the seat next to me vibrated and bounced up and down as I took the turn from Lincoln Avenue onto the single-lane Hummingbird Road. I had to drive slow in the old Ford Taurus to take the tight turns. Once I passed the country club, I had only the sliver of a moon to light my way. The tip of a white crescent rose slowly above the rock formation that was said to look like the head of an Egyptian mummy.

It always struck me as odd that these narrow, poorly lit mountain roads were the access point to the houses of the richest people in Arizona. But Kenna McKee told me, "We can't make it easy. We don't want just anyone to get up here."

During the day, delivery drivers and landscapers and construction crews created a flurry of activity. But after dark, the one-percenters stayed out of sight, hidden behind their private gates and dense landscaping. Me and Kenna and the rest of our friends were supposed to be setting up for the McKees' epic Halloween party. But helping my dad had taken longer than I thought, so it was almost ten when I crept along, alone on a Friday night, my phone no longer buzzing with messages from Jax and Reagan checking up on me.

I should have been focused on my application to film school. USC's Cinematic Arts program admitted around 2 percent of its applicants. I had script pages to polish, a personal statement to write, a short film to make, and reference letters to beg for. Plus, since my family was out of money, not only did I need to be better than 98 percent of the thousands of applicants who wanted to walk in the footsteps of George Lucas, Shonda Rhimes, and Jon Chu, but I also had to find some combination of grants, scholarships, and loans to get me to California.

But tomorrow was...