The Runaway

Book 1: Bane Island Novel

by Lisa Childs

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

I’m in trouble. Come get me.
On a remote island off the coast of Maine lies a secluded estate. There, behind wrought iron gates and rock walls, sits Halcyon Hall. Today, it is an exclusive spa catering to wealthy elites and
pampered celebrities. But once, it had another name—and a terrifying reputation …
Rosemary Tulle has come to Halcyon Hall desperate to find her younger sister. Seventeen-year-old Genevieve left a brief, troubling message on Rosemary’s phone, begging to be picked up. But
Rosemary is not on the visitor list, and no one will let her in …
Halcyon Hall was once Bainesworth Manor, an asylum for the insane. Such places often draw whispers about gruesome treatments and tortured inmates. In the case of Bainesworth, the
reality may have been far worse. Now, staff insist that Genevieve ran away, but Rosemary’s instincts say otherwise. Rosemary and Genevieve share an unusual bond, and she knows Genevieve
wouldn’t have just left. Compelled to turn for help to a man she hoped never to see again, Judge Whit Lawrence, she tries to learn the truth about Genevieve. But it will mean uncovering secrets
about Bainseworth Manor, and about Rosemary’s own dark past— secrets with the power to kill …

Release date: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 279

Sample

The long bridge shuddered in the wind, creaking and groaning as the car traveled along it. The car shook as well, and Rosemary grasped the steering wheel in tight fists, fighting to keep the tires straight, fighting to keep the vehicle from blowing right off the bridge into the icy water below. The wrought iron railings were low and too spindly to provide any real protection for a car or a person.

If someone had tried to walk across this bridge . . .

She glanced across the passenger’s seat and over that railing to the icy water far below that swirled and frothed around huge outcroppings of jagged rocks. She didn’t want to think about what would happen to something or someone that fell from the bridge.

But because of the rocky shore, the bridge was one of the only ways on and off Bane Island, which was located three miles off the coast of Maine. Helicopters could land on the island, too, but it was too rocky and uneven for planes. And ferries only braved the distance from the mainland in the summer when the waves weren’t quite as high and the water as icy. At least that was what Rosemary had discovered when she’d tried to make travel arrangements to Bane Island—to her sister.

If only she’d gotten the message sooner . . .

Her cell was tucked into the console of the rental car, charging. The weak reception drained the battery here just like it had when she’d been in New Zealand the past week. That was why she hadn’t played the message sooner—because she hadn’t even heard the call. Since the phone had been dead, it had gone directly to voicemail.

Even if she had dared to take one hand from the wheel, she didn’t need to play the message now to remember what it said. It played over and over again in her mind, haunting her:

Rosemary ...

Help me . . .

Mom and Dad sent me away to this horrible place, and I’m scared. So scared . . .

She hadn’t had to say it. Rosemary could hear the fear painfully in her voice, making it shaky and high-pitched. Nearly hysterical ...

And even though she was a teenager, Genevieve was never hysterical. She wasn’t overly dramatic or emotional. Growing up in the same house as Rosemary had, it wouldn’t have been allowed.

Because Rosemary had once been sent away, too, and it hadn’t been within the same state like the place where Genevieve was. Bane was just a few hours north of Portland where Rosemary’s family still lived. Rosemary did not.

She shuddered just as the bridge did when the car traveled along the last few yards of the three miles of flimsy metal and finally struck solid ground. Rock-solid ground. The tires skidded over the slick asphalt, and she clenched the steering wheel even tighter. But she didn’t jerk it; she just gripped it and rode out the skid as the car careened dangerously close to the WELCOME TO BANE ISLAND sign. When the car straightened, she expelled a ragged breath.

She wasn’t going to be able to help her sister if she crashed before she even found her. She knew where she was, though.

They sent me to this treatment center called Halcyon Hall. More like House of Horrors ...

Then her voice had cracked with sobs as she’d pleaded with Rosemary.

Please come get me!

The minute Rosemary had played the message she’d tried calling her back, but then Genevieve’s phone had gone directly to voicemail. Seeing the remoteness of this place, Rosemary could understand why. It was a miracle that Genevieve had been able to make the call at all.

“I’m here,” she whispered into the cold interior of the car. “I’m here . . .”

Genevieve wouldn’t be able to hear her, but would she sense it? Although Rosemary was so much older than her sister that they hadn’t grown up together, they were close. Despite not living together, they shared a special bond.

So why hadn’t Rosemary known Genevieve was in trouble? What had the girl gotten into that Mother had thought it necessary to send her for treatment? Or had she just done that to get her out of the way for the holidays? Rosemary had chosen to go away on a trip, too, because she hadn’t wanted to come home to Portland for Thanksgiving—for the awkwardness that ensued whenever she was around her mom and stepfather.

They had taken a trip for the holiday, too, leaving on a European cruise once they had shipped off Genevieve to what she’d called the House of Horrors. From what Rosemary had found when she’d googled the place, she didn’t think her sister was being overly dramatic now either.

The history of Halcyon Hall, formerly known as Bainesworth Manor, sounded like the plot of a horror movie complete with a curse and the ghosts of the cursed. The place had once been a psychiatric hospital for young women whose families had committed them for treatment. Treatments that, even if she wasn’t a psychologist, Rosemary would have considered atrocious and inhumane. According to the articles she’d read, many of the patients had not survived those treatments, and legend claimed that for decades their ghosts had roamed the ruins of Bainesworth Manor. Even though the buildings and grounds had recently been renovated and advertised as a new age treatment center, its history and maybe its ghosts continued to haunt the property.

She shuddered again in revulsion and because of the chill that permeated her sweater and the tights she wore beneath a long skirt. The rental car’s heater wasn’t overly generous, or maybe it just couldn’t keep out all the cold of this remote place with its miles of rocky shore, bluffs, mountains, and pine trees. But as she continued driving down the road from the bridge, she came upon a collection of buildings and houses and more streets intersecting the main one.

Halcyon Hall wasn’t the only thing on the island. There was a town. She even passed a hotel as she continued down the street. Not that she was going to stay there or anywhere else on Bane Island. She intended to collect her sister and leave as soon as possible.

First, she had to find the damn place, though. Since it was on an island, it shouldn’t have been that hard. According to the directions she’d downloaded before her phone died, the hall was on the main street that started at the bridge and ended at a pier that extended from the rocky shore to the water.

She reached the pier without finding it, though, and when the tires skidded on the icy pavement, she nearly wound up driving onto the pier. Instead of riding out the skid, she twisted the wheel and swerved as she braked. The car slid toward the rocky bluff and the waves crashing against it. With a sudden jerk, it finally stopped, and Rosemary’s breath whooshed out with relief. Her hand trembling, she pulled her cell from the console. Even though the phone showed fully charged, nothing came up on the screen. There were no bars. No reception.

She drew in a breath now and turned the wheel again, steering away from the pier to head back toward town. Someone there would be able to tell her how to find the hall. To reach town, though, she had to travel back along that long stretch of empty road with only pine trees lining it. The road didn’t remain empty for long, though. Before she reached town, lights flashed onto her rearview window and a siren pealed out, breaking the eerie silence.

She hadn’t noticed the police SUV behind her or anywhere else along the road. It had appeared out of nowhere. And why was it now pulling her over? She’d done nothing wrong. This time ...

But she dutifully pulled to the shoulder of the road, which was just a thin strip of gravel between the asphalt and the trunks of the pine trees. The police SUV didn’t pull over as far, nearly blocking the lane behind her. Then the door opened, and an officer stepped from the vehicle. He was tall, clad in a dark uniform and, despite the overcast sky, dark sunglasses as well. As he approached her side of the car, she fumbled with the unfamiliar controls to lower the window.

“I’m sorry, Officer,” she said. “This is a rental, so I don’t know where everything is.” In the car or on Bane Island. Maybe he could help her.

However, he stared at her with no expression on his face, his lips pressed in a tight line and his square jaw rigid. Finally he spoke. “Sheriff. I’m the sheriff.”

Then why was he wasting his time making traffic stops? Not that there was any traffic on the road. Just her car.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she corrected herself. “I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”

“You were driving carelessly,” he said. “You nearly went over the edge back by the pier.”

“I slid,” she said.

“You were driving too fast for conditions.”

“I didn’t realize how icy the roads are,” she admitted. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though, since it was late November. Michigan, where she lived now, got snow and ice storms before winter officially started, too.

“The roads are always icy this time of year.”

Was he always icy? There was nothing welcoming about his demeanor, and he had to have guessed that she was not from Bane Island. He probably knew everybody on the island, and maybe that was the real reason he’d pulled her over—to find out who she was.

Because his next comment was, “License and registration, please.”

She reached inside her purse and pulled out her wallet. After taking out her driver’s license, she reached across the console for the glove box. “I don’t know if the registration is in here or not.”

“This is fine, Ms. Tulle,” he said. And with her license in his big, gloved hand, he turned and walked back toward his SUV.

The cold was blasting through her open window, but she hesitated to raise it. She didn’t want to piss him off any more than he appeared to be. She drew in a breath of air so cold that it burned her lungs. Even though it had proven ineffectual, she reached over and cranked up the heater. The fan rattled as the air blasted from the vents. But the air wasn’t hot. It was barely warm.

A cough startled her. She jerked against her seat belt before turning back toward her open window. “I didn’t hear you come back,” she murmured. And she hadn’t expected him so quickly. She held out her hand for her license and whatever citation he was going to give her.

But he passed back her license alone. “What is your business here, Ms. Tulle?”

“Halcyon Hall.”

Behind those dark glasses, he studied her face for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

“I’m here for my sister,” she said. “To pick her up from the treatment center.” She doubted Genevieve needed treatment for anything but Mother’s overprotectiveness.

He shrugged, as if he didn’t care or didn’t believe her.

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“Here,” he said.

“I know it’s on the island but . . .”

He jerked his thumb behind him. “It’s here,” he said. “Behind those trees and the stone wall.”

She peered around him. And now, stopped, she was able to study the trees and catch glimpses of rocks behind the trunks and pine boughs. “Oh, how do I get inside?”

“Are you sure you really want to?” he asked.

“I’m here for my sister,” she reminded him.

He jerked his thumb farther down the road. “You’ll find the gate if you drive slowly enough.”

“I—I will,” she assured him, and she waited for that ticket, which he must have realized.

“I’m letting you off with a warning this time,” he said. “You need to proceed with more caution, Ms. Tulle. Much more caution.”

Did his warning actually pertain to her driving or to something else? He didn’t clarify, though, just turned and headed back toward his SUV.

Before she could raise the window, another noise startled her. This wasn’t a cough but a cry—a high-pitched, forlorn cry.

Was it human?

“What was that?” she called back to the sheriff.

He stopped next to his vehicle and listened. Then his mouth moved, curving into a slight smile. “Coyote.”

Shivering, she raised the window to shut out the cold and the cry. The sheriff got into his SUV but then just sat in it, as if waiting for her to pull away. So she did, slowly, just inching along the road until she found the wrought iron gate in the middle of the rock wall. Pine boughs stretched almost across the drive, obscuring the gate.

Didn’t they want anyone to be able to find the place?

The gate was closed, but an intercom system was mounted onto the stone wall next to the gate. She could have lowered the window again, but she wouldn’t have been able to reach the controls. So she opened her door instead and stepped out of the car.

And that cry echoed around her, that forlorn cry. Her finger trembled as she punched the button on the intercom panel.

“Halcyon Hall, how may we help you?” a melodic voice greeted her. The woman sounded upbeat and welcoming, completely opposite of everything that had greeted Rosemary since her arrival on Bane Island.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m here to pick up my sister, Genevieve Walcott.”

“Your name?”

“Rosemary Tulle,” she replied.

A long silence followed, so long that she pressed the button again. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked. The wind kicked up, blasting icy bits of snow at her face as her long skirt swirled around her legs and her long hair whipped around her shoulders. She pulled a black strand from where it had tangled in her eyelashes and peered through the gate—at where a narrow driveway wound between more trees and rocks. “Hello?”

The speaker cracked, and the voice sounded nearly as cold as the wind when it replied, “Ms. Tulle, you are not on the list.”

“List?”

“You are not on the visitor list.”

“Genevieve called me,” she said. “She asked me to come get her.” Pleaded was more like it, desperately pleaded.

“You are not on the list.” A click emanated from the speaker now as the intercom was shut off.

Rosemary repeatedly jabbed the button and called out, “Hello? Hello? Open the damn gates! Open them now!”

But the gates didn’t open, and nobody replied to her. Nobody answered her but the coyote that cried out again—so forlornly. Rosemary stepped closer to the gates and peered through the wrought iron. A shadow fell across the driveway on the other side. It could have been from one of the trees or the boulders. But the shape of it looked more human than that—like someone stood there, watching her....

The frozen ground crunched beneath the soles of his shoes as he walked across the grounds of the manor. Except that it wasn’t the manor anymore. It was a hall now. A treatment center to help instead of harm.

But no matter how much renovation and remodeling had been done to the stone mansion and the other buildings on the property, the place would never fully escape the past. And no person would ever fully escape from Bainesworth Manor.

He hadn’t.

Where was the cop—the sheriff—now when she needed him? As she traveled back to town, Rosemary didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of another vehicle. But then she hadn’t seen the sheriff either until his light had flashed in her rearview mirror.

Instead of looking for him, she should have just dialed 9-1-1 while standing at that gate. But the shadow falling across the driveway on the other side had unnerved her, and she’d rushed back to the rental vehicle. That must have been how Genevieve had felt when she’d left that voicemail—desperate to escape.

It wasn’t just the treatment center property that was creepy, though. The entire island with its rocky landscape was cold and forbidding with gray clouds hanging low, casting shadows over everything and everyone. Maybe that was all Rosemary had seen—just the shadow of a cloud.

She doubted it, though. She’d felt someone’s presence ... until she’d jumped back into the rental and locked the doors. Ever since then she’d felt alone, as if she was the only one left on the island. No cars passed her; no people walked along the road.

Then she drew closer to town, and a few cars drove along the streets intersecting the main one. She was not alone. She wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not, though—not here—on this godforsaken island.

Despite the brightly painted clapboard exteriors of the old buildings lining the streets, the town didn’t appear any more welcoming than the rocky coast had as Rosemary had driven across that rickety bridge. Many of the awnings had been rolled back with closed-for-the-season signs posted on the front windows. She wasn’t looking for a place to buy souvenirs or fudge, though. She was looking for the police department.

If the firehouse, a two-story brick building with a turret and fancy garage doors, hadn’t drawn her attention, Rosemary might have missed it. The flat-roofed one-story building was squeezed in between the firehouse and a two-story Victorian house with a diner sign dangling from the gingerbread trim of the front porch. Light shining from the windows of the diner cast a glow on the front door of the short building and on the sign, in the shape of a badge, that adorned the tall steel door: BANE SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

A breath of relief slipped out of her lips and hung, like one of those gloomy clouds casting shadows over the island, inside the car. Maybe the heater had stopped working entirely. She didn’t reach for the controls, though. Instead she gripped the steering wheel and turned the car into the lot on the other side of the diner. Ignoring the DINER-ONLY PARKING signs, she pulled into a space. Her heart beating fast with fear for her sister, she pushed open the door and rushed toward the police department. As she passed the diner, the smell of roasting chicken wafted across the porch; her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was empty.

She hadn’t eaten that day. She’d barely eaten since she’d played that message. Maybe once she got Genevieve out of Halcyon Hall, they would stop here before they left Bane Island. Or maybe Genevieve would just want to go home.

Home...

Rosemary’s stomach churned, but it wasn’t with hunger now. It was with dread. She didn’t want to bring Genevieve home any more than she wanted to leave her here. Determination surging through her, she pushed open the door to the sheriff ’s office and stepped inside the building. Not that she felt like she was inside when faced with another wall—with another door and window in it. She gripped the knob of that door, but it didn’t turn no matter how hard she twisted. So she stepped over to the window. A desk sat behind it—an empty desk.

She tapped on the glass and called out, “Hello!” Urgency rushing through her, she pounded harder. “Hello! Hello!”

A door behind the desk opened, and a man in the same blue uniform the sheriff had worn stepped through it. He wasn’t the sheriff, though. He wasn’t as tall or as broad, or maybe the sheriff had only seemed that way because she’d been sitting in the car. The officer pressed a button on the desk, and his voice echoed throughout the small reception area. “How may I help you?” he asked.

“You can help me get into Halcyon Hall.”

He gestured at the window with his index finger, making a pointing motion. She glanced around and noticed a speaker and button next to the glass—which must have been soundproof and probably bulletproof. The security was nearly the same as at the hall. Pressing the button, she repeated her request.

The man’s mouth curved into a slight grin. “You and everyone else . . .” he murmured. “The hall is a private facility. We have no jurisdiction there no matter how much . . .” He trailed off again, leaving her to wonder what he left unsaid.

“My sister is at the treatment center,” Rosemary explained. “But they won’t let me in to see her.”

“You’re not on the list.”

She tensed. “How do you know that?”

“You don’t get inside unless you’re on the list,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She narrowed her eyes and studied the officer on the other side of that glass. He was younger than she was, probably still in his twenties, or maybe he looked that young from the fullness of his face. He wasn’t broad like the sheriff, but he was stocky, his belly straining the buttons of his uniform. “You know a lot about the hall despite having no jurisdiction there.”

He shrugged and remarked, “Bane isn’t that big an island.”

Not big enough to justify bulletproof glass in the police department ... unless it was a more dangerous place than it appeared, which increased Rosemary’s sense of urgency. “My sister called me to pick her up,” she said.

He shrugged again. “Then she should have put your name on the list.”

“I—I’m sure she did,” she insisted.

He shook his head. “Then you would have been on it.”

“They must be lying,” she said.

“They?”

“The hall—whoever picked up when I pressed the intercom button.” Like the button she pressed now—to speak to the officer. “They’re lying.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. They’re holding my sister hostage in that creepy place.”

“People pay a hell of a lot of money to go there. They don’t need to hold anybody against their will.”

“They’re holding my sister,” she said. “I have a voicemail from her to prove it.” But when she reached for her phone, she remembered she’d left it in the rental car—charging. She’d been so anxious to get help. She suspected the officer wasn’t interested in helping her, though. Maybe once he heard the voicemail . . .

“I’ll go get my phone,” she said. “You’ll hear it in her voice—the fear. She wants out of that place.”

“Why doesn’t she just check herself out then?” he asked. “Or better yet, why did she check herself in there?”

“She didn’t,” Rosemary said. “Our parents put her in there.” So they could go on their vacation without worrying that she’d get in trouble ... like Rosemary had.

His brow furrowed. “Your parents? How old is your sister?”

“Seventeen,” she said.

His lips curved again into another slight smile. This one felt patronizing. “Oh . . .”

“She’s being held prisoner,” she insisted. “She was put in there against her will.” Just like the girls she’d read about, the ones who’d been committed to the manor all those years ago. “You need to help me get her out of there.”

He shook his head.

“Why won’t you help?”

“Because it’s not a police matter, Miss,” he said. “It’s a family matter. You need to talk to your family.”

“I tried,” she said. “The damn hall won’t let me through the gates.”

“Your parents,” he said. “You need to talk to them. They must have a reason for admitting her for treatment and a reason for not putting you on the visitor list.”

That dread churned in her stomach again. “I tried talking to them,” she admitted. She’d left voicemails for them like Genevieve had left for her. But they hadn’t returned her calls.

He shrugged. “This is a family matter.”

The door behind her creaked open, and a woman stepped into the small reception area with her. She also wore a navy-blue uniform. How many officers did this small island have? Just how the hell dangerous was it?

“Can you help me?” she asked the older woman. Her face was softer and kinder than the male officer’s and certainly more so than the sheriff’s.

Before the woman would answer, that voice emanated from the speaker again. “I’ve got this, Margaret. She’s here about the hall.”

The woman’s soft expression hardened then. She juggled containers in her hands as she reached for the door Rosemary had tried opening just moments ago. The knob turned easily for the woman, and she pushed open the door to step inside what appeared to be an even narrower foyer than the reception area. Rosemary considered following her, but she doubted it would matter what she said to these officers. She wouldn’t be able to convince them to help her.

Not unless ...

But she wasn’t ready to share her secrets with strangers; she hadn’t even shared them yet with a friend. Most of the time she wouldn’t admit them to herself.

The door closed behind the woman, locking Rosemary out again. Sh. . .