Chapter 30
"He had literal blood on his hands. He cornered me in the office when I tried to check out. It was an accident, I swear."
We're both sobbing, clinging to each other like maybe the safest place left is in each other's arms.
"Did you notice the blood on the back of Sabrina's car?" I exclaim. "That had to have been Albert. Was he warning us?"
"I have no idea. We need to get out of here! Did you call for help before you came to get us?" Phoebe's eyes plead with hope.
"No." I wipe snot from my nose. "Service is down. The power's out. Chet didn't answer his door."
"You really think it's Albert?"
"It has to be! I don't know who else got caught red-handed."
"Albert's not smart enough to think of something this elaborate," Phoebe says doubtfully. "How did he… die?"
"It was an accident. He fell against the fireplace hearth. He knew… he remembered I lived here when I was little."
"You did?"
"Yes. It's not like I meant to keep it a secret from you both. I don't even remember my life here. I lived in Frosthaven Falls until I was three. My dad was a police officer here but got a job offer in the big city and we moved. Albert knew, somehow. I guess I look a lot like my mom."
"But that's irrelevant! Why would that matter?"
"That's why I got all the files," I sob harder. "I wanted to make sure my dad's name wasn't connected to anything here, even before all the shit with Romee Anderson. You have to believe me."
"Calm down, Mara. I do. But this makes no sense. We need to—"
Before Phoebe can finish, the wind slams the front door shut. A loud burst of broken glass crashes onto the deck out front.
Is someone here to save us? Or is it another trap?
"Icicles," Phoebe explains. "We need to leave."
We cautiously move toward the front door, only to realize it's stuck.
"Did it slam so hard it jammed? Or did someone lock us in from the outside?" Phoebe asks, panic rising in her voice. "What the hell do we do now?"
"I know the layout. There's a back door in the kitchen. Have you tried going through there yet?"
Phoebe shakes her head barely an inch, like she's afraid even that tiny movement might trigger another trap.
"Please, let's wait until we get cell service to call for help."
We're both crammed into the small foyer of the house—if you could even call it that. It's a mudroom, an entryway, and the bottom of the staircase all rolled into one.
I turn on the flashlight on my phone, and even with the house so dim, the beam cuts through the darkness enough to reveal another tripwire.
"There." I point it out to Phoebe—the nearly invisible line stretched across the small door frame to the kitchen.
"Step over it?" she suggests.
We do, moving into the dining area like we're walking through a minefield. Every step is braced for impact, for a reaction, for death.
When we open our eyes again, once we're "safe" in the kitchen, we spot a shotgun mounted in the top corner of the door frame, angled downward at a ten o'clock position, strings still attached to the trigger.
"Jesus Christ."
Taking Albert's keys from my jacket pocket, I notice he has a Swiss Army knife attached.
Phoebe sees where I'm going with this and adds, "Good idea. Cut it so we can use the shotgun as a weapon."
I stand off to the side, out of the line of fire, just in case the trigger goes off anyway. It's a tricky angle—the blast would hit anyone walking through.
But when I cut the line, nothing happens. The strings twisted around the muzzle don't even budge or loosen. No recoil. No shot. Nothing.
"What happened? Anything?" Phoebe asks from where she stands, hovering near the small dining table.
We're both waiting for a bomb to go off. Maybe this wasn't the smartest idea.
"Was it fake? Something to throw us off?" I contemplate.
I'm standing in a puddle of some unknown liquid before I even realize it's trickling slowly into the room. It's only when I feel the heat melting my shoes and the steam rising from the soles, burning into my skin, that I know something is very wrong.
"Mara!" Phoebe shouts, panicked, as a small pool of acid creeps across the kitchen floor.
I stumble backward, yelping in pain, kicking off my shoes like they're on fire, because they might as well be.
The rubber of my boots sizzles against the tile, and I'm far enough from the growing puddle to sit down and tear at the laces.
My socks are soaked, the sting crawling up my legs like fire under the skin.
Phoebe grabs dish towels, hopeful the chemical will wipe up cleanly. But when I look at the bottoms of my feet, the flesh is already bubbling.
Panic and bad choices flood my brain. Any thought of making a smart move goes out the window—house be damned. The only thing that sounds like it could numb the pain is the freezing cold snow.
I sprint toward the back door, and behind me, I hear a faint, desperate, "Mara, wait, let me check-"
The door flies open with ease, and I don't expect to see someone standing in the way.
A figure dressed in black stops me in my tracks.
Head to toe in protective gear—gloves, ski mask, some kind of hood—I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman. Just the shape of a body's profile blocking any hope of escape.
And that hope shatters the moment the unseen ax head slams into my skull.