Echoes (Dance with My Demons #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Avery

"Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes… Ashes… We all fall down…"

Do I tremble in fear? Laugh hysterically? Cry and scream until my lungs are torn to pieces?

What's the appropriate reaction to being framed for murder? It's one thing to be rightfully accused but another to be framed. What type of sick, ironic joke is this?

My wrist is red raw from the handcuff, the metal pulling and rubbing against my delicate skin. I'm chained to a desk in a cold, pale-gray room; an obvious two-way mirror in front of me.

I look like shit.

As I stare at my own reflection, mesmerized by my pathetic appearance, I can't help but wonder what my viewers think of me too. I feel like a circus animal, chained and put out for show.

Come one, come all. Hear the echoes of my hauntings.

I'm innocent—for once. But who is going to believe me? I'm the woman who murdered her father after all.

I start laughing, slowly at first, before it gets maniacally louder. On the outside, they must think I'm insane. I guess I am. But the truth is I'm haunted by misery. The ghosts of my past hold on to me, pulling me down. I tried to fight because I didn't want to drown. But maybe it's my destiny.

I should have died that day. But for a brief moment in time, I had actually started to believe that I survived for a reason. Now, I realize it was hopeless, wishful thinking. Because people like me don't get second chances. We're designed to live through torture, built to be the fallen and forgotten.

Well, it was nice while it was short lived.

At least for a short period, I got to experience happiness again and to some extent, freedom. I'm grateful for that.

Sing-song voices echo in the distance outside the room, and I'm not sure if I'm imagining them or if people are locked in the cells down the hall. All I know is that I'm alone, being watched like I'm a science experiment.

Are they waiting for me to break? Confess my sins?

Or maybe, worse still, they have forgotten me. I spent my whole life as an afterthought—if I was even lucky to be that. The irony of being forgotten after being arrested on the accusation of murder is one for the ages.

Time stands frozen, the clock on the wall broken. But even the clock is still right twice a day. Everything in this room mocks me—the clock, the metal chain around my wrist, my own reflection.

Finally, an officer comes through the door. In his forties, his gray stubble is neatly trimmed, while his blue eyes scan my bound frame. He sits across from me, chair legs scraping along the ground, sounding like nails on a blackboard. I flinch, and again, when his beige folder hits the table with a smack.

"Ms. White," he starts, observing my face carefully. "Do you know why you were detained?"

I shrug. "Constable Lennon said I was under arrest for murder."

It crosses my mind that he used the word detained rather than arrested. But I don't read too much into it. There's no hope here, after all.

"I'm Detective Vernon," he says, sounding bored. "As you are aware, a body was found earlier today at Lilydale Foundation Center. I'm told you knew the deceased." He pauses, checking his notes. "Samuel Hallman."

Flashbacks come in waves from the day I was arrested for Dad's murder. I've been here before, I know this line of questioning.

I know how this ends.

"Yeah," I answer. I'm not sure what else to say. I obviously knew him, and for whatever reason, they suspect that I killed him. It's not looking good—witnesses saw us fighting. People know he was put into the hospital after a brutal attack. It's so easy to point it back to me that I can understand why they assume it.

But I can't understand how the staff access card got into my pocket.

"I'm told that you and the deceased had a volatile relationship at the center."

I can't stop the cringe appearing on my face as shutters rack my body. Volatile is correct, but defining us as having some type of relationship—that's crossing boundaries.

For whatever reason, Sam hated me. He made my existence at Lilydale a living nightmare. Worst of all, he tried to hurt me. Who knows how far he would have gone if Theo hadn't stepped in and saved me.

Theo.

My heart bleeds as obsidian eyes materialize in my head. If Theo really did do this, I need to protect him. Like he protected me.

It's not fair if he goes down for stopping a psychotic rapist. These people in this very building, they are the ones who are meant to protect us. But no one protects us at Lilydale. We're left to protect ourselves, written off from society as the villains. I'd have been long gone if it wasn't for Theo… and Grey. Fuck, even to a small extent, Damon too.

For the first time in my life, it's clear what I have to do. Theo is one of the only people who ever gave a shit about me—made me feel special and seen. If there's one good thing that I can do with my life, the one time I can save someone instead of needing saving, then this should be it. I don't know what my future holds, but at least Theo might still have one.

"Aren't I meant to have an attorney present?" I ask, reflecting from his question.

Detective Vernon glances up, still blasé with our interaction. "You haven't been charged with anything— yet . We're just asking questions."

"That can't be legal," I scoff. "I had my Miranda rights read. So, if you are going to be using anything said here to charge me, then I'm entitled to have someone present."

He slaps the folder shut, leaning back in his chair. His mouth opens but before he can say anything, a knock sounds on the fading, blue door. We both turn in unison to spot a female detective putting her head through the gap in the doorway.

"They've arrived," she tells him without glancing at me.

"Send them in," he replies.

I look at him, then the door, trying to figure out who would be here. Only a few seconds pass before the door opens again, my eyes widening slightly at the familiar figure.

Margaret walks in, dressed immaculately as always. She gives me a warm smile as she enters. A second figure follows her in, a male I don't recognize.

"Avery," she says in a friendly tone, like we're old friends. "How are you doing?"

"Splendid."

Detective Vernon stands, gathering up his folder. "Let me know when you are finished," he grunts, leaving the room.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Margaret takes his seat in front of me, eyes darting down to the handcuff. "You're hurt," she points out. "I can ask them to remove it."

"Don't bother," I grumble. "Didn't you hear? I'm the big, bad killer again."

There's sarcasm dripping in my tone, and I have no idea if we're being watched on the other side of the mirror. Maybe that's what this is—a secret ploy for a confession. At least Margie knows the truth. There's a small bit of comfort in that information.

"What happened?" she asks, ignoring my comment.

I shrug. "I don't know. One minute I was there, the next I was here. I told you that place was too much. I never should have gone there to begin with."

My eyes shift to the male still hovering near the door, uncomfortable with his unfamiliar presence while we talk about my past. Margaret follows my line of vision, softly nodding to him.

"Avery, I'd like you to meet Alexander."

Despite being the obvious elephant in the room, he makes no effort to move. His green eyes narrow over my frame, eyes lingering on the handcuff for a brief moment, before body-checking me with his gaze. It's as if he's trying to get a read on me, and I shift awkwardly, turning back to Margaret.

"What's going on?"

Margaret gives me a tight smile. "Alexander is here on behalf of the Foundation Center. He's one of the board members."

"Isn't that a conflict thing?" I ask, bewildered. "Or is he here to formally revoke my place?"

"Ordinarily, yes," comes a snarky reply from the doorway. He steps closer to the table, still observing me in a way that makes me want to rip my skin off my bones. It's not sexual—but it's certainly predatory. His salt and pepper hair is neatly styled back, his expensive Armani suit fitted to his tall frame.

Must be all those fees and donations they get…

"So, why are you here?" I question softly. I'm completely confused, exhausted. I had expected to be grilled for several hours by detectives until I broke, then thrown into a dark, cold cell. But this meeting was not something I could have anticipated. If Margaret wasn't here, I'd be really lost. Her familiar presence is grounding me slightly, stopping me from breaking.

Alexander doesn't answer me, instead looking at Margaret and giving her a curt nod. She sighs in relief, giving me a smile.

"Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?" I snap in frustration.

"The Lilydale board has agreed not to press charges and will also accept you back into the center. However, there will be some stipulations, of course," Margaret says, looking excited like she's delivering the best news of all time.

My stomach drops. "And if I don't want to go back?"

I don't know what I want. Of course I'd rather be there—a thought I never imagined myself thinking—but at what cost? Who knows what disrepair Lilydale is in now and what my future holds?

Who knows what will happen to me?

If this murder thing goes away, that's one thing. But I'll still have to face the wrath of the other patients. And Damon.

Oh, my fucking God.

Is this one of Damon's games? Getting me locked up after framing me, just to then bring me back to his kingdom to demonstrate his power?

At least I'd be with Theo. But something tells me, I wouldn't always be protected. And once again, that puts the people I care about in the firing line.

"Avery," Margaret stutters in disbelief. "Why don't you want to go back? You know the only other option is to serve out the remainder of your sentence in federal prison."

I pick a spot on the dark graphite wall to focus on. "Lilydale isn't all it's cracked up to be. No offense," I add, looking at Alexander. His demeanor is cold, ruthless, and I try not to flinch as his dead eyes narrow on me.

"You'll be going back," he mutters in a deep, warning tone. "The detectives are currently investigating this matter and speaking to patients. At this stage, the preliminary report is suicide."

Well, at least he calls us patients . Unlike Whitface who refers to us as students. This guy knows and sees it for what it actually is.

My eyebrows furrow at his words. "And do you believe that?"

"No," he answers without hesitation. "I'm well aware of the behavior of the patients and what they are capable of. But I doubt you did it. I'm not sure why you would masquerade around with a lie of that magnitude, but frankly, I don't care. Our reputation is on the line here. You will return to Lilydale. The Board has already decided on the matter."

"I was framed," I blurt out.

Pausing by the door, Alexander looks over at me, a hint of disgust on his features. "Obviously," he replies sarcastically. "Your social worker will discuss with you the stipulations of your return. I trust Arthur will also have some choice words as well."

He swings the door open, partially heading out before he looks over his shoulder. "And Ms. White?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time I will not be as generous."

I know the other option was prison, but there's something about his tone—a threat—that makes me believe he's not referring to my imprisonment.

He's referring to my life.