Chapter 13
ABI
“No!” I scream, despair coursing through me as I stumble backward, so sick with fear I’m about to throw up. How could I be so stupid? Of course I won’t be safe just because I leave the house. Of course he’s not working alone.
But then the man in the doorway speaks.
“Where is he?”
I recognize the voice immediately. Low, raspy. The same voice that asked, May I touch you?
I jerk my gaze up, my breath tight and panicky. It’s him. He’s wearing the same twisted mask, and I can smell him, a dark amber scent like the woods at night.
I drop my mouth open, but my throat doesn’t work. I can’t answer.
It doesn’t matter. My nameless killer drags me by the shoulders and heaves me violently onto the porch, then steps in front of me just as the earlier attacker bursts through the doorway.
“Who the fuck are you?” the attacker asks.
My killer launches himself at him, a dark comet that slams into the intruder’s chest and shoves him back into the house. I can just see them through the door: two dark masses that bleed into one another as they thump against the floor.
One of them screams, sharp and short. Then it’s caught off.
I brace myself against the banister, my entire body sheened with sweat as the hot, muggy air presses around me. The silence is overpowering.
I know I should run. There’s a twenty-four-hour gas station about a half mile down Hatch Street. Once I get there, once I’m bathed in the buzzing fluorescent lights, I can call for help.
But I don’t move. I’m petrified against the banister, my pounding against my rib cage like it’s training to escape.
Footsteps.
I stiffen, whimpering with fear, my muscles tense. A dark shadow falls into the doorway.
It’s him. It’s my killer.
He stares at me through his mask, his eye gleaming in the porch light. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then he says, “Come inside. Now.”
“W-why?” I whisper.
“He’s dead,” my killer says. “You don’t have to worry about that. But you need to come inside. A car might drive by.”
I look over Hatch Street, illuminated in patches by the street lamps.
“Who are you?” I whisper. “Why did you—“
“Inside.”
I peel away from the banister, moving on slow, shaky legs. I could still run. My killer makes no move to attack me. He doesn’t even have a weapon. Not that a lack of a weapon would stop him, clearly.
I can feel him watching me as I shuffle across the porch, my arms wrapped tight around my chest. When I’m close enough to the door, he steps aside, giving me room to come in.
My attacker lies sprawled in the foyer, his head bent at an impossible angle.
“What did you—“ I can’t say it. I can’t stop shaking. “How did you—”
A bang as he lodges the broken door back into its frame. I jump like I just heard a gunshot.
“I’ve been watching you, my little detective,” he says softly, right in my ear. I shriek and whip away from him.
His eyes move behind the mask, watching me.
“Who was that?” I gasp out.
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head toward the body. “Why don’t you take that stocking off and find out?”
My breath lodges in my throat, and I shake my head furiously. “I can’t do that. I can’t mess with a—a crime scene—”
My killer grabs me around the waist, jerking me up against his chest. I don’t know how he moved so fast. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.
“You’re not thinking of calling the police, are you?” He bows his head to speak into my ear, the cool latex of the mask smooth against my skin.
“What else am I supposed to do?” I whimper. “I can’t—it happened in my house, and I—”
My killer snakes his arm tighter around my waist, pulling me closer into him. His body is soft and strong at the same time, and I have to fight against the urge to lean back into him, to wriggle my ass until I feel his cock.
You did not just fucking think that.
“You can’t call the police,” my killer murmurs. “Because then we wouldn’t be able to continue our conversation.”
“What conversation?” I gasp, even though I know:
Letters carved into skin, spelling out words only I can see.
He tuts. “Don’t hurt my feelings, little detective. I don’t want the authorities investigating me. I want you to do it.”
“He killed Olivia.” The words turn into a sob, and I doubt my killer even knows who Olivia Pearce is. Or cares. “He told me he did.”
“And now he’s dead.” My killer loosens his grip, sliding his hand over the curve of my hip but not dropping it any lower. “Justice has been served, yes?”
I take deep, shaky breaths, staring over at the body. It looks like a pile of laundry in the middle of the floor. It looks like nothing.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I hardly believe that I’m even considering doing what my killer asks.
I want to tell myself I’m just playing along, that as soon as he leaves, I’ll be on the phone with the police department and the sheriff’s office, given his track record covers both their jurisdictions.
But I know I won’t be.
“You don’t have to do anything with it.” He steps around me, moving with slow, steady strides. “I’ll take care of everything, little detective. All you have to do—”
He glances over at me, the twisted expression on his mask leering and cold.
“—Is keep looking for me.”
“I found you,” I gasp. “You’re here. Right here.”
He shakes his head. “Not what I mean, and you know it.”
He crouches down beside the body and gestures for me to come over.
“You’re going to keep killing,” I whisper. “I’m supposed to let you just keep killing—”
He looks at me again, his eyes an impossible weight. For a moment, I want to see his face. Not so I can know what he looks like, but so I can know what he’s thinking.
“Of course,” he says. “We’re having a conversation. Each death serves a purpose.” His eyes glitter. “It helps me reveal a little more of myself to you.”
I suck in my breath, unsure how to respond to that. Or unsure why it sets my heart fluttering.
My killer reaches down and yanks the stocking off the attacker, then carefully tilts the face toward me.
He’s older. That’s the first thing I think. He’s got to be fifteen years older than me, with shaggy brown hair going grey at the temples and tanned, leathery skin. His eyes are wide with shock, his mouth slack.
I don’t recognize him.
“Who is he?” my killer asks, eyes fixed firmly on my face.
I shake my head. “I don’t—I’ve never seen him before.”
Still, I work through the possibilities in my head. He murdered Olivia Pearce and then came for me. It has to be someone connected to Blake Fletcher, doesn’t it? But I’ve never seen this man before. And he’s too old to have been one of Blake’s friends at school. A relative, maybe?
“Hmm,” my killer says. Then he balls up the stocking and shoves it in the man’s mouth.
“What are you going to do to him?” I whisper.
My killer stands up. “Not what he did to poor Olivia Pearce,” he says.
My heart thumps. So he does know about her death. Suddenly, I’m wondering about another killer’s identity. He obviously lives here. The police didn’t release many details about the case, but the Rosado gossips have been hard at work, no doubt.
“But I won’t tell you anything else.” He tilts his head, and his voice changes. I think he’s smiling. “But you’ll find out soon enough. Think of it as a test, Abilene—“
It’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name, and it sends lightning bolts through my core.
“If you keep our secret safe, I’ll know I can trust you.” He moves closer, stepping over the body without looking at it. I hold my breath as he leans into me, his eyes dark behind his mask as he reaches up and cups my face with his gloved hand.
I shiver a little at the touch.
“I’ll know you really are my little detective,” he purrs. “Good night, Abi. And go upstairs. Tell your friends you’re all right.”
How the fuck did he know about that? Another spike of terror in my belly. But something else, too. A sense of dark flattery.
“Don’t come down until morning.” He rubs his thumb against my jawline. I hate that I like the way it feels, that I don’t want him to stop. “You’ll see. In the daylight, everything will be all right.”