Chapter 5
THE FAWN
The world tilts on its axis as I stumble through the streets, my feet carrying me home on autopilot. The afternoon sun feels too bright, too cheerful for the nightmare unfolding before me.
It's like I've stepped into an alternate reality.
I keep waiting to wake up, for this all to turn out to be some sick, stress-induced hallucination. But with each step, the truth sinks in deeper, its poison spreading through my veins.
This is really happening.
And if I don't play along, the people I love the most will pay the price.
By the time I reach my front door, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely fit the key into the lock. I stumble inside, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it as if I can physically block out the madness nipping at my heels.
And that's when I see it. A plain brown package sitting innocuously on my coffee table, like a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate my world.
My heart lodges in my throat as I approach it, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the sudden stillness of my apartment.
He was here. The Hunter, or whatever twisted fuck is orchestrating this game. He was in my home, violating my sanctuary while I danced and drank and let a stranger finger me in a coat closet.
Or… he was the stranger.
We played your game last night. Now it's time for you to play mine.
Seems the wolf mask was an even better fit than I first thought.
Acidic bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down, my hands trembling as I tear open the package, its contents spilling across the table like the pieces of a macabre jigsaw puzzle.
A sleek black phone, its screen dark and reflective as a mirror. A stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills, more money than I've ever held at once. And a single black credit card with the logo of some bank I've never even seen before.
There's also a note.
The Hunt begins at 7 AM sharp.
The fawn has until then to prepare.
Happy hunting.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging on a sob.
Happy hunting.
Like this is some kind of fucking game, a twisted version of hide and seek with my life—and God knows what else—as the prize.
The money feels like a lead weight in my hands, a bribe and a threat all rolled into one. I start trying to count the bills, the rhythmic practice soothing my nerves a little, but there's too much to count. It has to be around fifty grand, more than enough to disappear, start a new life somewhere far away from here.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it's futile. There's no running from this, no hiding place I won't be found. This asshole has made that crystal fucking clear with his little slideshow of my loved ones, blissfully unaware of the crosshairs trained on their backs.
My gaze falls on the phone, its screen reflecting my face as if it's mocking me. I don't trust it, not for a second. It's probably bugged with some kind of tracking device that will lead them straight to me, no matter what those rules said. But as much as I want to smash it against the wall, to grind it under my heel until it's utterly destroyed, I resist the urge.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to be smart.
I need to play the game.
But on my own terms—and that means not letting them dictate my every move.
I leave the phone where it is and grab the cash and the card, stuffing them into the duffel bag I keep stashed in my closet for emergencies. Clothes, toiletries, a first aid kit, granola bars, all tossed in haphazardly as I move through my apartment like a whirlwind.
I pause in the kitchen, my eyes landing on the knife block. With a trembling hand, I pull out the biggest butcher blade, its weight heavy and foreign in my palm. I wrap it in towels so I don't slice myself open and tuck it into my bag along with a can of pepper spray I keep in my purse for late-night walks home from the library.
It's not much, but it's something. A tiny scrap of control in a situation that's spiraling rapidly out of my grasp.
I reach for the old coffee can on top of the fridge, the one that holds my meager emergency fund. A few hundred bucks, most of the cash wadded up, a laughable amount compared to the stack of bills burning a hole in my bag. But at least I know they're not traceable.
As I stretch up on my toes, my fingers grazing the cool metal, a blinking red light catches my eye. My answering machine, a relic from another era I keep meaning to get rid of but never seem to get around to.
One new message.
My blood runs cold, a sense of dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a stone. With a shaking hand, I press play, my heart pounding in my ears.
"Hi, honey!" My mom's voice fills the room, warm and familiar, and for a moment, I'm transported out of my nightmare and back to pancakes and coffee on lazy Sunday mornings. "I got your text about the last-minute girls' trip to Cancun. I'm so glad you're taking some time for yourself, sweetheart. You work too hard. Have a margarita for me and don't do anything I wouldn't do! Love you."
The machine beeps, the message ending abruptly, but I barely hear it over the roaring in my ears.
Girls' trip to Cancun?
I didn't send that text.
But someone did.
Someone who somehow has access to my phone and my life.
Someone who's thought of everything, every last detail to ensure that no one will come looking for me. That I'll just be another cliché, a young woman running off to find herself in some tropical paradise only to disappear without a trace.
I grab my phone with trembling hands and sure enough, there it is. The text to Mom about Cancun, right there. As if I wrote it myself.
They texted back and forth about it, too, and he did a pretty damn good job emulating my typing style. Even threw in a few kiss emojis and hearts for good measure.
I check my message history. He'd texted Natalie, too, still pretending to be me. They joked back and forth about how she couldn't possibly go on both an impromptu trip to Cancun and her sister's wedding. She was happy for me. Happy I was finally "spreading my wings." And hoped I'd spread my legs, too.
Did she seriously not know she wasn't talking to me?
Then I scrolled down and saw she'd texted the Hunter a picture of herself posing with the giant new purple dildo she won at Jules's bachelorette party.
Yeah. She did not know she was talking to a serial killer.
What. The. Fuck.
The walls seem to close in around me, the air thick and cloying in my lungs. He infiltrated my life, violated me in ways I can't even begin to fathom.
And getting help isn't an option. Not with the lives of my mom, my sister, and my best friend hanging in the balance.
I'm on my own. A fox in a forest full of wolves with nothing but my wits and the thudding pulse of my own fear to guide me.
Or am I more like a fawn now?
I put my phone on the table next to the one the Hunter gave me and shoulder my duffel bag. I'm moving again, a whirlwind of nervous energy propelling me out the door. I have to put as much distance between myself and my old life as possible.
I flag down a cab, giving the driver an address on the other side of town. He grunts in acknowledgment and I stare out the window as the familiar streets blur past, my neighborhood fading into the distance like a half-remembered dream.
When we arrive at the bus station downtown, I pay the driver in cash, not wanting to leave any kind of electronic trail. Not that I think it'll help. The station is already bustling with activity, commuters jostling for position in the ticket lines. I join the throng, keeping my head down and my eyes averted, just another anonymous face in the crowd.
I buy a ticket for a bus heading west, the destination less important than the distance it will put between me and my home. As I settle into my seat, the cheap vinyl squeaking beneath me, I finally allow myself a moment to breathe, to try to process the insanity of the last few hours.
But even as I close my eyes, the images play behind my eyelids like a twisted slideshow.
The phone.
The money.
The ominous black card.
My mother's voice, so blissfully unaware of the danger lurking just out of frame. Natalie's clueless texts.
And him.
The Hunter, the wolf, the faceless specter pulling the strings of my life like a puppet master.
I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself as if I can physically hold the pieces of my shattered reality together. One question burns brighter in my mind than any others.
How far am I willing to go to survive?