THE SURVIVOR

CHAPTER ONE THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD The first time I died, nobody cried. The second time, I made sure nobody knew. But tonight, as I stood outside a locked church at midnight, staring at a photograph of my own funeral, I began to wonder if surviving had been the worst mistake of my life. The photograph was old, its edges softened by rain. I had found it inside an envelope pushed beneath the door of my apartment less than an hour earlier. No name. No address. Just the photograph and a note written in black ink. WE KNOW YOU DIDN’T DIE, ANABELLA. My fingers tightened around the paper. Behind me, a car passed slowly through the deserted street. I didn’t turn. I’d learned a long time ago that looking frightened only made certain people more interested in you. Instead, I folded the note, slipped it into my coat pocket, and stared at the church doors. Three years ago, I had stood in this exact spot wearing a white dress stained with someone else’s blood. Tonight, I had returned wearing black. Funny how life worked. Sometimes, the places that destroyed you were the same places that refused to let you go. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. I answered without speaking. For several seconds, there was nothing but silence. Then a woman whispered, “Anabella?” My heart stopped. Nobody had called me that name in three years. Not since the fire. Not since the bodies. Not since I watched the world bury a girl who looked exactly like me. “Who is this?” I asked. A shaky breath came through the phone. “You need to leave.” I glanced at the church doors. “Who are you?” “Listen to me carefully. You were never supposed to survive that night.” My throat tightened. “How do you know about that night?” “Because I was there.” The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I gripped the phone harder. “Tell me your name.” A pause. Then, so quietly I almost missed it, she said, “Your sister is alive.” I forgot how to breathe. My sister had been dead for three years. I had seen her photograph among the victims. I had watched my mother collapse at the funeral. I had spent months waking up screaming because I could still hear my sister calling my name through the smoke. She was dead. She had to be dead. “That’s not funny,” I whispered. “I’m not joking.” “Who are you?” “You have until midnight tomorrow to find out the truth. After that, they’ll come for you again.” The call ended. I stood motionless beneath the church’s broken security light. Then I heard footsteps behind me. Slow. Unhurried. Getting closer. I turned. A man stood at the end of the pavement, dressed in a black coat that fell perfectly over his broad shoulders. Rain glistened in his dark hair. His face was half-hidden in shadow, but I could see the cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t looking at the church. He was looking at me. I took one step backward. He took one step forward. “Anabella Voss,” he said. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t heard my full name spoken aloud in years. “Who are you?” He extinguished his cigarette beneath his shoe. “Damien Cross.” The name meant nothing to me. At least, that was what I told myself. Then he stepped beneath the light. And I saw the scar running along the side of his neck. A scar I recognized. A scar I’d seen before. In my nightmares. On the body of the man who had dragged me out of the burning house three years ago. The man who had disappeared before the police arrived. The man I had spent three years believing was responsible for everything. Damien watched the recognition spread across my face. “Ah,” he murmured. “So you do remember me.” I couldn’t move. “You were there.” “Yes.” “You know what happened that night.” “I know some of it.” “Some of it?” My voice cracked. “People died, Damien. My family died.” His expression didn’t change. “I know.” I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream. Most of all, I wanted him to tell me that my sister was alive. Instead, he looked past me towards the church. “Who called you?” I said nothing. His jaw tightened. “Anabella, I’m going to ask you one more time. Who called you?” “Why should I tell you anything?” “Because whoever it was has just made the same mistake they made three years ago.” “And what mistake was that?” Damien looked directly into my eyes. “Leaving you alive.” My breath caught. Before I could respond, headlights swept across the street. A black SUV turned the corner. Damien’s expression changed instantly. He grabbed my wrist. “Come with me.” “Let go!” “Not here.” “You’re hurting me!” He released me immediately, but his eyes remained fixed on the approaching vehicle. For the first time since he had appeared, I saw something in his expression that frightened me more than his words. Fear. Damien Cross was afraid. “Listen carefully,” he said. “You can hate me tomorrow. You can call the police, run away, or put a bullet in my chest if that makes you feel better. But if you stay here, you won’t live long enough to do any of those things.” The SUV stopped across the road. Two men stepped out. One opened the rear passenger door. The other raised his hand. Something metallic caught the light. A gun. Damien swore under his breath. Then he took off his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Whatever happens,” he whispered, “don’t let them take you alive.” The first gunshot shattered the church window. Damien pushed me to the ground. Glass rained over us. I screamed. He pulled me behind a parked car, shielding my body with his own as another shot struck the pavement inches from my head. “Move!” he shouted. I scrambled to my feet. We ran. My heels slipped against the wet pavement. My lungs burned. Behind us, men shouted and footsteps thundered through the darkness. Damien pulled open the passenger door of a waiting car. “Get in!” I hesitated. He turned towards me. “Anabella, please.” The word stopped me. Please. Not a command. Not a threat. A plea. I climbed inside. Damien slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and accelerated before I had fastened my seat belt. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. I watched the church disappear behind us, my hands trembling in my lap. Then I noticed something on the dashboard. A photograph. My breath caught. It was a picture of a little girl standing between two adults in front of a birthday cake. Me. My mother. And my sister. On the back, someone had written a date. Tomorrow’s date. Beneath it were six words. ONE SISTER LIVES. ONE SISTER LIES. I slowly turned towards Damien. “What does this mean?” He glanced at the photograph. For the first time that night, he looked genuinely troubled. “Where did you get that?” “It was here!” He snatched it from my hand and stared at the writing. The silence that followed was terrifying. “Damien?” He didn’t answer. “Tell me what you know.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Then he said something that made my blood run cold. “Anabella, the woman who called you tonight?” I swallowed. “What about her?” He looked at me. “That was your mother’s voice.” My entire body went numb. My mother had been buried three years ago. I had watched them lower her coffin into the ground. I had stood beside it until everyone left. I had placed a white rose on the lid with my own trembling hands. And yet— I had heard her voice. I had recognized it. I had believed it. “No,” I whispered. Damien said nothing. “No. That’s impossible.” He reached into the inside pocket of his shirt and pulled out a second photograph. This one was recent. It showed a woman standing outside a small house, her face turned away from the camera. On her wrist was a bracelet made of tiny silver stars. My mother’s bracelet. The one I had buried with her. I stared at the photograph until the edges blurred. Then I noticed the date printed in the bottom corner. It had been taken two days ago. My lips parted, but no words came out. Damien slowed the car as we approached a red light. “There’s something you need to understand,” he said quietly. I looked at him. “Three years ago, you weren’t the only person who survived that fire.” The light turned green. He drove on. “And tomorrow, Anabella, you’re going to discover that the dead aren’t the only ones who can come back.” I looked down at the photograph again. At the woman wearing my mother’s bracelet. At the date. At the house I recognized from my childhood. Then my phone vibrated. One new message. No number. No name. Just a photograph. I opened it. My hands began to shake. It was a picture of Damien driving. Of me sitting beside him. Taken from outside the car. Taken seconds ago. Beneath it was a message. YOU TRUSTED THE WRONG MAN AGAIN. Another message appeared. ASK DAMIEN WHAT HE DID WITH YOUR SISTER. I slowly lifted my eyes. Damien was staring straight ahead. His face had gone pale. And for the first time that night, I understood something that terrified me more than the fire, more than the gunshots, more than the possibility that my mother was still alive. Damien Cross hadn’t come to save me. He had come because he knew something I didn’t. And whatever that secret was— It had followed me out of the grave.