Chapter 52
BESIDE HER, NICOLETTE SUDDENLY DROPS to the floor, landing hard with an audible thud.
Barb stops in her tracks, uncertain of what just happened.
She can still hear the screaming, just barely now with the door closed and the music still playing, and her instincts are telling her to get out of this cabin, and get out now.
But she can’t leave Nicolette behind. She couldn’t live with herself if she left a friend behind . . . again.
Looking down, she sees Nicolette lying limp on the wood floor, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her arm twisted at an awkward angle.
It’s disturbingly similar to how Lorelei looked in the Starlight bathroom all those years ago, but this time, Barb can see Nicolette’s chest moving. Oh thank god, she’s breathing.
For now, anyway. Standing over her is the tall man, the one they were so certain would be Marty. But this isn’t Marty. This is someone worse. This is . . . Owen ?
She watches as Owen—assuming that’s even his real name—bends down and strokes Nicolette’s hair gently, almost lovingly. And then he looks up, his gaze locking on Barb. His eyes are dark, unreadable, dead.
Not even Marty had eyes like this. Eyes that see everything but feel nothing. A stab of fear hits Barb in the gut, sharp and cold, like a knife that’s been sitting in ice. He’s going to kill Nicolette, she’s certain of it. And then he’s going to kill her.
It’s not until Alice moves slightly that Barb remembers the younger woman is still there, hovering in the flickering candlelight shadows just behind her boyfriend.
Alice seems shell-shocked at the sight of Nicolette on the floor, and totally unsure what to do.
Barb can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now; the realization that her boyfriend is a dangerous psychopath has got to be a mindfuck.
Somewhere out there, the terrible screaming continues. Barb can only hope that Cameron has gone to help them, because she has a feeling that she, Nicolette, and Alice are on their own in here.
She tries desperately to make eye contact with Alice from across the cabin, willing the other woman to snap out of it and do something, anything, to keep Owen from hurting Nicolette.
The iron poker stick is still in Alice’s hand, after all.
But she doesn’t dare speak. She can’t risk alerting Owen to the fact that his girlfriend is holding something she can strike him with.
Hit him! Barb shouts hysterically in her own head. Hit him, Alice, before he stands up! Hit him now.
Owen looks back at Alice. “Sweetheart,” he says, in the exact same pleasant, monotonous voice as before. “What would you like me to do?”
Huh?
Alice steps forward. The poker stick in her hand catches the candlelight, and that’s when Barb sees it.
Attached to its tip are several long strands of dark hair .
. . Nicolette’s hair. Drops of blood fall from the end .
. . Nicolette’s blood. Alice has had the stick in her hand the entire time, and now Owen is asking her what she wants him to do.
Oh my god . . .
“I would have much preferred to hit you,” Alice finally says, her gaze fixed on Barb. She has both hands on the iron stick now, wielding it like a baseball bat. Holding it like a weapon. “I didn’t want to hurt Cole. I want to keep her.” Alice raises the poker stick.
“Alice, stop,” Barb says with a gasp when she finds her voice. “It’s me. Alice, it’s me. We’re friends. Don’t . . . don’t do this.”
“You want me to do it, sweetheart?” Owen asks, still in that disturbingly pleasant manner. He could have been asking her what she wanted for dinner. “I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t mind?
“What I want is for you to take Cole over to the other cabin,” Alice says to him crisply, still locked on Barb. “And then come back. I’ll have another body for you to dispose of.”
It’s Alice speaking, but she no longer sounds like the skittish young woman Barb knows. Her voice is stronger, more certain, commanding. And while she’s similar in size to Barb, she now seems ten feet tall with the iron stick in her hand and the look of a stone-cold killer on her face.
“Alice, please . . .” Barb says, looking around wildly for something she can use to defend herself. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Let’s not make this difficult,” Alice says simply, moving toward her. “I liked you, Barb, but you’re not leaving here alive.”
Barb is not a fighter. She’s never trained for it, has never taken any sort of self-defense course, and she’s not even in particularly good shape. What little she knows about hand-to-hand combat, she’s learned from watching movies. And in the movies, you use whatever’s around.
The open bottle of red wine is still sitting on the table, within reach. Barb grabs it and whips it at Alice as hard as she can. Merlot sprays everywhere, but it works. The bottle hits Alice square in the head, and she goes down immediately, appearing to have been knocked unconscious.
Before Barb can even process what she’s done, Owen is on her in a flash, his giant hands wrapping around her throat.
Barb has never been choked before, and she claws frantically at his fingers, but they might as well be steel traps.
She kicks and squirms, and after a second realizes her feet aren’t even touching the ground.
Owen has lifted her up off the floor, using the weight of her own body to strangle her while his hands act as the noose.
Her throat feels crushed; she can’t take a breath or wriggle loose, no matter how hard she flails. Slowly, the world starts to blur.
And then, suddenly, Owen lets go. They both fall to the floor in a heap, Barb gasping for air as the sound of something metal clatters nearby.
Nicolette has just dropped the poker stick she used to hit Owen with from behind.
Still struggling to catch her breath, Barb watches as her friend woozily tries to remain standing.
But Nicolette doesn’t succeed, ultimately falling back against the wall and sliding down onto her butt before appearing to pass out again.
Owen, dazed but awake, attempts to sit up. Grabbing the stick, Barb scrambles to her feet and raises it high. She’s poised to strike him when she hears her name.
“Barb,” a voice says from behind.
Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she whirls around wildly, the poker stick gripped tightly in her fist. But thankfully it’s Cameron in the doorway, gun in hand, his gaze laser-focused on the tall man on the floor. She’s so relieved to see him, her knees go weak.
“Step aside, Barb,” Cameron says, stepping forward into the cabin. “Police. Martin Keiswetter, you’re under arrest.”
“It’s not Marty,” Barb wheezes, her throat throbbing. She lowers her hand but doesn’t let go of the stick. “I don’t know where Marty is, but this sure as shit isn’t him. This is Owen.”
“Who the hell’s Owen?” Cameron asks, frowning. “And what happened to Marty?”
She has no idea what the answer is to either question. But before she can tell him this, another voice speaks from the doorway.
“We saw a grave out there,” a woman says. Her voice is hoarse and dry. “Maybe Marty’s in it. And I hope this fucker joins him.”
Barb sees then that there are actually two women standing in the open doorway, staring into the cabin with glazed, horrified eyes. They’re clutching each other, and both of them have cut chains attached to one leg. The woman on the left is Sydney Larsen. The woman on the right is Kylie Kahl.
Barb is speechless. All this time, Kylie has been here?
The former reality star, missing for six long years, is barely recognizable now as she lets go of Sydney and steps forward.
Barefoot in stained sweatpants and a T-shirt, Kylie is pale and painfully thin, her normally lustrous dark hair now a lifeless and stringy box-dyed black.
Her clothes hang on her as she walks toward Barb cautiously, her eyes never wavering from the tall man still lying dazed on the wood floor.
The portion of chain still attached to her ankle drags behind her, making an awful scraping sound, like something out of a horror movie.
Kylie seems oblivious to everyone and everything else around her. When she nears Barb, she reaches for the poker stick. Barb hands it over without protest.
“Don’t,” she hears Cameron say.
Barb looks over at him, and their eyes meet.
She shakes her head. They have no idea what Kylie has been through the last six years; the horrors she’s experienced, the violence she’s survived.
They may never know. But there’s no doubt this woman has been living in a nightmare.
Whatever happens next should not be up to them.
“Let her finish it, Cam,” Barb says softly, and from the doorway, Sydney Larsen lets out a sob.
Nobody moves.
Standing over Owen, Kylie looks down at him for a few seconds. Then, raising the iron stick high, she strikes him. The sound of iron hitting skull is duller than Barb would have predicted.
Thwack.
“Kidnapper,” Kylie says, her voice barely above a whisper as she raises the stick again.
Thwack.
“Rapist,” she says, her voice a bit louder as she strikes him again.
Thwack.
“Murderer,” she cries, her grief unmistakable.
Thwack.
“Monster,” she screams, her face filled with fury. “I got you, motherfucker. I got you.”
She hits him again.
And again.
And again.