Chapter 2
Two
Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I sprint up the driveway and fly onto the porch. My hands tremble as I rummage through my bag to find my house key. I insert it into the lock and turn it—only to discover that the door is already unlocked. I let out a frustrated, inhuman screech as I barrel into the foyer and slam the door shut.
“Chill out, geez,” Austin calls from the living room as I fumble with the lock.
“Are you crazy?” I shout, failing utterly to keep the panic from my voice. “Leaving the door unlocked when there’s a fucking serial killer running around? What the hell is wrong with you?!”
I can practically hear him rolling his eyes as he scoffs and says, “Stop being so paranoid.”
I slide down the door, my breath coming in stuttered waves. “If you weren’t so busy playing those stupid video games, maybe you’d see the news every once in a while.” I don’t dislike video games, but Austin could be more aware of his surroundings. “Have you done your homework, by the way?” I inquire, trying to inject a sense of normalcy into the conversation.
“Uh-huh,” he replies, barely acknowledging me.
I glance at the clock and realize it’s already 11:30. How long had that asshole left me there? Chills run down my spine as fear grips me once again. I touch my neck; the wound is mostly superficial but no less terrifying. Gathering my strength, I make my way down the hall, past the living room, hoping that Austin won’t notice the state I’m in or ask where I’ve been.
Because I don’t have the mental capacity to answer that right now.
As I climb the stairs, my ankle pulsates. But I manage to make it to the second-floor bathroom and close the door before heaving sobs erupt from my chest. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my face a mess of streaked mascara and smudged eyeliner. Leaning on the sink for support, I suppress the urge to vomit as I kick off my shoes and turn on the shower to drown out my sobs.
Not that Austin can tear himself away from his games long enough to even care.
I strip, chucking my clothes aside to examine later, and then gingerly step into the shower. Hot water cascades down my body, tears tracing paths down my face, as I try to process what happened tonight. I pick at my palms and examine myself. Although nothing appears to be broken, I notice some redness and swelling on my side that will probably bruise. I’m fortunate my injuries are relatively minor and mostly superficial.
Delicately, I scrub myself, washing away the dirt and grime that accumulated during the violent altercation. The frightening memory replays over and over in my mind, causing me to shudder. I know I won’t be able to sleep soundly tonight.
Perhaps never again.
He’s here.
I clutch my blanket to my nose with white knuckles, feeling like a petrified child. The alarm clock on the stand beside me displays an incorrect time, as if the electricity had gone out at some point. The sound of old wooden stairs creaking makes me bite my lip to keep myself from screaming.
He’s come to kill me.
Holding my breath, my heart pounds as I hear footsteps creeping down the hall. A door groans open, and I realize it’s to Austin’s room. But my relief quickly extinguishes when the door shuts, suggesting that the intruder didn’t find what—or who—they were looking for. I yank the covers over my head and steady my breathing, a task made even more difficult once my bedroom door slides open.
I don’t dare to vocalize a peep as the door is closed once again. Then I swear I hear faint footsteps fading away in the shadows. Am I losing it? I’m losing it.I double-checked the front door and closed all the windows earlier. It’s most likely just Mom checking up on me. There’s no way that psychopath would break into my home.
Earlier, he let me go. He wouldn’t go back on that …
Right?
I try to assure myself that whoever is in my room is my flesh and blood—even though a traitorous voice reminds me she has not taken the time to visit me after work since I was seven.
I can’t stop trembling. I turn, pretending to adjust my position in my sleep, using the blanket as a makeshift pillow. The silence returns, and I feel myself drift off as phantom lips plant an affectionate kiss on my forehead.
Make it quick.
My eyes flutter open,and I rub the sleep from my eyes. The previously flashing red numbers on my alarm clock are now set correctly, showing it’s 10:34. I take a moment to gather my thoughts and reflect on the events of last night. It must have been a dream, I reason, refusing to entertain any other possibility. Because the alternative is too horrifying to even consider.
If I want to move forward, I have to pack it all down into a tiny box in the back of my head. I refuse to be labeled the freak—the weirdo, all because I have flashbacks and lose myself to panic attacks in public.
I glance at the posters of Hole, Nirvana, and a few other bands that are taped to the wall across the room. Kyla hooked me up with them through her job at Arbor Spins, along with Hole’s newest album and a matching shirt. Memories of the mall, the walk home, and everything else rushes back, sending my mind spiraling. Self-consciously, I touch the spot on my throat where that psycho sliced me.
Pushing back the tears, I carefully get out of bed, making sure not to put too much weight on my ankle. The brace I wore last night appears to have provided some relief, but I should still be careful for at least a few more days. If anyone asks, I can always blame it on being accident-prone.
But I will never, ever tell the truth.
The clothes I wore are now in a pile at the foot of my bed. My jacket, with a tear at the elbow and stains from dirt and grass, has definitely seen better days. Aside from that, my other clothes are relatively unscathed, except for some dirt on my pants and dried spatters of mud. I sigh.
Memories bubble up from the recesses of my mind, but I force them back down to focus on my grooming. I put on a tattoo choker to conceal what remains of the cut, which seems to have mostly healed already after applying antibiotic cream and disinfecting it last night. It’s better than a bandage, which would draw attention to it and bring about questions I’m unwilling to answer.
Lucky for me, he didn’t slice deep.
I swallow, imagining blood flowing freely from the wound—and cram those thoughts into a box. When anxiety tries to claw its way back out, I know it’s time to get out of this house before I lose my mind. I slip on a hoodie and a pair of stonewashed jeans, grab my bag, and make my way down the stairs.
Before I even reach the kitchen, the sound of the TV hits my ears. Austin is sitting at the table, loudly chomping on toast slathered with too much butter, while Mom putters around. The television in the corner blares the latest news report, causing my head to throb. Unfortunately, the painkillers have worn off. I try to tune everything out and focus on the ugly, kitschy pattern on the tablecloth.
“Did you get in late again last night?” I ask Mom as she turns on the stove. I sit down and begin picking at a frayed thread on the tablecloth, the blooming migraine making me want to dunk my head in a sink of freezing water.
Mom yawns as she cracks an egg into the pan. “Not any later than usual. Why do you ask?”
I consider asking her about the kiss. Would it be out of character for her to come into my room while intoxicated and give me a reassuring kiss on the forehead? I cringe, already knowing the answer, but I persist with a glimmer of hope. “I was just curious,” I say, leaning down to retrieve aspirin from my bag. “Because last night, I felt?—”
My heart flies out of my chest as toast erupts from the toaster.
Mom glimpses me over her shoulder, but she doesn’t verbally press me for verification. “Yeah, um … Don’t worry about it,” I say. She continues scrambling eggs while I dig through my bag. Finally, my fingers close around the bottle, and a sense of relief floods me. As I’m about to get up to grab a bottle of water, Austin finishes chewing and gestures to the toaster.
“Could you get me another one of those?” he asks—or more like orders.
With a furrowed brow, I roll my eyes and head over to the fridge. I swipe a bottle and set it aside on the counter before snagging the slices of toast. I then grab a plate for myself from the drying rack, drop the slices on it, and return to the table with my water. “Here you go, Your Majesty,” I mutter, handing Austin a slice.
He plucks it from my hand without even a thank you, and I let it slide, wondering if I’m too much of a doormat.
I twist off the cap and take a big gulp of cold water from the bottle. It’s brisk, just what I need. I open the painkillers, dole out two pills, and pop them into my mouth. Just as I’m about to swallow them, my focus shifts to the TV. A crowd has gathered in front of a house surrounded by yellow police tape and a red ‘breaking news’ alert scrolls across the screen. I almost choke on aspirin as the reporter starts to speak.
“A concerned neighbor discovered a body in the early hours of the morning, in a house on Glenbury Avenue,” she states, her tone more bored than sincere. “When the forty-five-year-old owner, Scott Robinson, didn’t answer the door, his neighbor noticed that it was already open, and he investigated.”
My throat goes dry, the pills scraping my esophagus as the report cuts to a disheveled man—Scott’s neighbor, according to the subtitle underneath his name.
“I go in there, and there’s blood everywhere. He wasn’t breathing, there was a large slash across his neck.” He clears his throat, his eyes darting wildly. “Scott didn’t deserve this. He was a good man—a family man, a church leader. What monster would do such a thing?”
Sweat trickles down my neck as I watch the report. Glenbury Avenue is part of my shortcut. I tear my gaze away from the TV and chug more of the water, my head swimming with all the possibilities. It couldn’t have been, I think, massaging my temples. My brain nearly short circuits as I piece the puzzle together. The psychopath—the blood on his knife …
“Wholly shit,” Austin remarks, staring at the screen with a vaguely amused expression as if the death of someone was a spectacle rather than a tragedy.
Mom shuts off the stovetop. “Language!”
“Where do you think I learned it from?” he retorts with a laugh, treating the whole thing like a joyous occasion.
My appetite disappears, and I abruptly stand up, causing the chair to screech across the linoleum. Quickly, I grab the pills and water, toss them into my bag, and sling the strap over my shoulder. Mom raises a brow but remains silent as I leave the kitchen.
“What’s her problem?” I hear Austin ask.
He cracks some stupid joke about PMS as I put on my shoes and leave the house with a slam of the door.
I’ll get food elsewhere, somewhere I can clear my head.