Chapter 15 Fifteen Places to Hide #2
I feel sick at the thought as I watch the other boy straighten. My breath catches as the light moves closer. What will Preston do when he finds this man is loose? Will he knock him out like he did his grandfather? If he’ll punch an old man, what wouldn’t he do?
“Here, kitty kitty kitty,” sing-songs the quiet, taunting voice.
My skin prickles, a shiver running up my spine and making the hair on the nape of my neck stand up.
It takes another second to realize it’s not from my thoughts alone, but from the prickling sensation of a presence beside me.
I turn my head toward the window, away from the rest of the hall.
I can just make out a shape, so close I can feel the heat of his body against my arm.
The glow from the phone sweeps our way, lighting up another masked face just inches from mine.
His mouth twists into a smirk before forming into a shape that whispers one word, so soft I can hardly hear it.
“Boo.”
This time, I don’t scream. I grip the key in my hands and dive for the end of the hall, just two more doors down.
I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t have time to look over my shoulder.
My hands are shaking, but I thumb the keyhole and then shove the key in hard, twisting at the same time.
I barely have time to yank the key out before someone’s at my back.
I feel a whisper of air against my neck as he makes a grab for me.
Ducking, I charge onto the small landing. The door is wrenched from my hand, and I feel my nail break with a ripping pain. I’m already on the stairs, though, thundering down them without a thought for being quiet now. It’s too late for that.
They’re no longer sneaking around, either.
Their footsteps are hot and heavy on the stairs behind me, the whole herd of us thundering down.
I reach the first floor and throw myself at the door, praying it’s unlocked.
For once, luck is on my side, and the door flies open, slamming against the wall and bouncing back so hard it almost hits me.
I dart through and turn, falling against the door with my shoulder.
I shove the key into the lock and twist. Without waiting for them to start pounding, I race down the side hall, this one dimly lit by a couple wall mounted lanterns.
I reach the foyer before I realize the footsteps behind me are gone.
Maybe I should be relieved, but a shiver of terror runs through me instead. Now I don’t know where they are. Did they get stuck behind the locked door? Or turn around and go back up? Are they done, or will they come down the other stairs?
Another round of shaking starts in my limbs as adrenaline courses through me. I turn to the back hallway, only to see Magnolia on the stairs to the east wing.
A squeak escapes me, and I stumble back.
“Where you off to?” she asks.
“I’m getting out of here,” I say, charging down the west hallway, the one that Preston brought me in to use the bathroom a month ago, the last time I was free.
I throw open the door to the garage and grope around on the wall before flipping on one of the sets of overhead lights.
The fluorescent strips flicker on, illuminating the glimmering paint and chrome of a dozen cars.
Cars which have keys out here, thanks to Grampa Darling.
I send a prayer of gratitude for the pervy old bastard’s bad memory, then hurry to a pegboard with a dozen sets of keys—minus one.
I glance at the spot and realize it’s Preston’s truck key.
“Wait up,” Magnolia calls, scampering into the garage. She hits the door opener, and I could just about kiss her for thinking to do that. Not sure I’d ever forgive my stupidity if I sat in the car waiting for the door to roll up while the insane clown posse dragged me out.
I grab the set of keys next to the empty space and run for the ’27 Roadster, climbing in without a word to the littlest Darling.
“I said wait,” she barks, diving into the passenger seat just as I start the car.
The gear shift is a little different than a modern standard, about two feet tall and reaching all the way to the floor, but I get it into gear without stalling out.
I send up another prayer of thanks that my mama taught me to drive a stick—something every southern gal should know, according to her.
I twist around and hit the gas, and the little car lurches out onto the gravel. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of movement, but when I whip around that way, it’s gone. My heart is thundering in my chest, my throat, my ears.
“Go, go, go!” Magnolia screams, barely getting her door slammed shut before I press in the clutch and shift into gear.
The car lurches forward, and she whoops.
I shift again, a little less roughly this time, and the tires send up a spray of gravel behind us as I round the corner of the house, my eyes on the narrow road leading around the end of the west wing, down to the gate, and beyond that, freedom.
Just as I’m about to reach the end of that side of the house, the car rocks, and a grinning, masked face looms in my window, just inches from mine.
I scream involuntarily and swerve, but he comes with us, holding onto the side of the car.
He lets go with one hand, pounding on the window.
I shift again, and the car surges forward.
He falls away, and the last I see of him is his stumble to keep his balance and stay on his feet.
Then I focus, yanking the wheel at the last second, trying to make the turn to clear the end of the house at a speed that’s far too high for gravel. The tires begin to slide on the loose material, but I steer into it, correcting until I get control again.
Magnolia whoops again, pumping her fist in the air.
Then we’re rounding the corner, and I can see the gate at the bottom of the hill, and I shift, pressing down on the gas just as a figure throws itself across our path.
I scream out a curse and slam on the brakes.
As if in slow motion, I feel the car sliding out, beginning a spin.
I hear the distorted echo of Magnolia’s shriek.
I see the man crumple over the hood of the car, his head bouncing off the metal, his mask flying through the air, a flash of blond hair and a red, angry scar.