Chapter Twelve
Teagan stood frozen, the horror of what was happening—again—seeping into her bones like leaden concrete, anchoring her in place. Her pulse hammered in her ears, blocking out the sounds around her. It was as if her mind had separated from her body and all of this was happening to someone else.
Bryson. Sweet, wonderful Bryson lay dead at her feet, his dark hair matted with blood.
She’d only caught a glimpse of his battered body before jerking her gaze up toward the man who’d hit him, fully expecting the next blow from the baseball bat to land on her.
Even so, she couldn’t raise her arms to defend herself. She. Couldn’t. Move.
Instead of hitting her, he’d taken Bryson’s pistol out of his holster, then shoved his hand in her pocket and yanked out her gun too, all before she could even blink. How had he known she had the gun when even she, in her moment of need, had forgotten it?
He’d been just inches from her but after taking the guns, he’d walked away.
She watched helplessly, uselessly still as a statue, as the man—oh God, that voice—crossed the family room to the woman cowering in the corner.
What was her name? Broderick. Mrs. Broderick.
A trap. She’d led Bryson and Teagan into a trap. Why? Why would she do that?
The woman’s lips moved. She was looking up at the man, hovering over her with the bloody baseball bat in his right hand.
She was saying something, pleading? The words were lost in Teagan’s fractured mind, unable to penetrate the sound of her own heartbeat rushing in her ears.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, white noise that masked everything around her.
The tableau played out like a silent movie before her, a nightmare.
Because surely none of this was real. It couldn’t be.
Not again. Not again. She couldn’t survive this again.
The man lifted the bat.
No. Teagan tried to yell, to get her legs to move. She had to help the lady. But her throat was so tight she couldn’t make a sound. Her legs were shaking so hard she couldn’t take a step.
He brought the bat down in a deadly arc.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Oh dear God, please, no! The bat. The woman. Bile rose in Teagan’s throat. A low-keening moan filled her ears, and the man jerked around to look at her. She realized that she was the one making that awful sound.
The room around her darkened, like a tunnel, narrowing down to one point where all she could see was the man across the room, watching her.
Everything centered on what she’d never seen until this very moment.
His face. She’d known that voice, the devil’s voice.
To this day, it haunted her dreams. But that face.
How could such evil hide behind such an average, kind-looking face?
There was nothing remarkable about it. He was white, clean-shaven, his light brown hair streaked with blond that had no doubt cost a fortune at some expensive salon. Which meant this man had money, a job, likely a home, a car. A family? He was just like anyone else she’d pass on the street.
Except that he wasn’t.
The eyes. The eyes gave him away. They were dark, almost black, completely devoid of warmth.
An abyss of emptiness, a deep well of evil with no soul to warm them.
They were the eyes of the monster who’d hurt her two years ago.
The same monster who’d just brutally killed Mrs. Broderick.
And the wonderful man lying at Teagan’s feet.
She couldn’t look down. Couldn’t stomach seeing the damage the bat must have done. She didn’t want that image burned into her retinas. Bryson. Smart, gorgeous, sweet Bryson Anton, who wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her.
Forgive me, Bryson.
Evil stared back at her from twenty feet away. Blood dripped from the bat in his hand. She shuddered as a wave of nausea gripped her.
He smiled, as if pleased at her distress. Then he started toward her, still holding that awful bat. Slowly. Like a lion stalking the weakest member of the herd, separating it out, readying for the kill.
Her mind screamed at her. Move. Run. Do something.
But she couldn’t. Why not? She’d run before.
Two years ago, when her attacker injected drugs to put her to sleep, but missed the vein, she’d taken advantage of his mistake.
She’d pretended to be asleep. And then, after hearing the sound of his car driving away, she’d forced one foot in front of the other. She’d gotten away.
There were neighbors close by. Some of them had to be home. Most of them had to be home. The workday was over for the nine-to-fivers. All she had to do was turn around and...no.
She couldn’t leave Bryson.
She didn’t deserve to survive yet again when he lay at her feet in his own blood. It was her fault. This, then, would be her penance. Face the monster. Pay the price for bringing Bryson here, for destroying a wonderful man.
Shoes echoed against the floor. Hardwood. Like her parents’ house. He was coming closer. Relentlessly. Slowly. Savoring her fear.
She whimpered, and hated herself for it. She was about to die. She wanted to face him with dignity in her last moments. But the wounds of the past were too much to overcome. Her body wasn’t her own anymore to command. She couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe she was already dead.
Evil stopped three feet away.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, to memorize every line, every bump, every angle of his ridiculously ordinary face, refusing to look away as fate raised the bat once more.
If she couldn’t run, at least she could stand here and pretend courage she didn’t possess.
There would be no defensive wounds for her.
But as she stared at him, a strange sense of déjà vu swept through her.
She’d seen him before. Not at the shack.
He’d always concealed his identity back then.
So she had to have seen him somewhere else. But where? Who was he?
He raised the bat higher, watching her, as if waiting to see what she would do. As she remained motionless, his smile faded. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of cowering. She was ruining his fun.
Hooray for her. Finally she’d beaten him. If only in a very small way. This time it was her turn to smile.
Hate glittered in his eyes as he slowly lowered the bat.
He tossed it onto a nearby chair and reached behind him.
Metal glittered in the overhead lights. A gun?
No. Silver circles. A short chain connecting them.
Handcuffs. He’d bound her last time, tied her with strips of cloth.
But never handcuffs. She’d cut through the strips with her teeth after the drug had failed to knock her unconscious.
Perhaps he’d changed his routine since then. He’d learned from his mistakes.
He moved with a swiftness that was terrifying. Too late, she tried to twist away. But the sound of one of the cuffs ratcheting onto her left wrist echoed in the foyer. He yanked her wrist down toward the floor. She fell to her knees, sliding in the sticky wet blood. Bryson’s blood.
Dear, sweet Bryson. Lying on the floor, his face turned toward her. Eyes closed forever.
His murderer slapped the other handcuff onto Bryson’s right wrist and ratcheted it closed, anchoring her to his body.
She looked up in question. He’d retrieved the bat, but instead of slamming it down on her, ending this, he turned away.
His shoes clomped across the floor as he headed down the hall to the left.
Dress pants. He was wearing gray dress pants and a white shirt.
A formerly white shirt. Had he just left work?
What kind of person did this—entered someone’s house and beat them to death after getting off work, like it was a normal part of their day?
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, but died before reaching her lips.
The monster had opened a door and headed inside.
A muffled sound echoed from the room. Was someone else there?
The sickening unmistakable crunch of wood on bone had her gasping in horror.
The other half of the couple who lived here, Mr. Broderick.
He must have been in the room, probably tied up.
A bribe so that his wife would do what the monster told her to do.
Bile rose again in her throat. She turned away from Bryson’s body just in time to empty the contents of her stomach against the foyer wall. She shuddered and wiped her mouth.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, the whisper finally passing through her tight throat. “Please let me die quickly. And don’t let me grovel or beg for my life. Give me strength. Please, God. Help me.”
Something fluttered against her shoe.
She gasped and whirled around. The fingers of Bryson’s right hand moved against her, tapped her toe. She shot him a look of shock, and met his pain-filled startling blue gaze.
“Bryson,” she whispered. “You’re alive. Oh my God. Bryson.” She lifted her shaking right hand to his face and gently cupped it. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
His eyes seemed unfocused. He coughed and blood dribbled out of his mouth to the floor.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Don’t try to talk.
” She jerked her head up, realizing there weren’t any sounds in the other room anymore.
He’d be coming out soon. Coming for her and Bryson.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Play dead. He thinks you’re dead.
Just, no matter what happens to me, just lay there.
Don’t move. Do you hear me? Play dead. It’s your only chance. ”
His fingers tapped her again and his lips moved.
She glanced down the hall, then leaned down, trying to hear what he was saying.
“Run. Get. Away.” His whisper was so low she could barely make it out. “Go.”