Chapter 30
Emily threw herself sideways. Her hip slammed into the counter, her knee groaning at the sudden movement.
She swung the knife blindly. The blade caught something, and Roscoe hissed.
She sped around the island so it sat between them.
Knife still raised, Roscoe touched his side and lifted his hand, blood staining his fingers.
He nodded. “Good. I didn’t want this to be too easy.” He smiled again. A crazed, wild kind of grin that was all wrong. “Gotta make it entertaining for our viewers.”
“You’re sick! You know that?”
“No. I’m passionate. I’m going to kill you, release my movie on the internet, and disappear to some dark corner of the world where no one will find me. But everyone will remember my name.”
He started around the island. She reached for a glass canister on the island and hurled it at his head.
As he ducked, she raced toward the back door and tried the handle.
It didn’t give way. Another padlock. The same kind that had been fastened to the front door.
Shit.
The click of shoes stepping on glass sounded behind her. She spun as Roscoe’s arm flew toward her.
A scream tore from her throat and she dropped to her knees, ignoring the pain that screamed from her left knee.
“You know as well as I do the bad guy never wins.” She plunged her knife into his left thigh.
His scream was loud and pained.
She yanked her knife back, pushed to her feet and raced around him.
She was halfway up the stairs when her knee buckled.
She fell forward, her chin hitting a step hard.
But she barely felt the fire running up her thigh or the sting to her jaw.
All she could think about, all she could concentrate on, was getting away.
She needed to find a room with furniture to put between her and Roscoe. She needed to hide!
Then what? The terrified words shouted in her head.
A window. There had to be at least one that wasn’t sealed shut, or one she could break. She’d find a way out of here. There had to be a way out.
She’d just reached the end of the hall when angry footsteps stomped up the stairs.
She gasped and slipped into a room on the right. Small flickers of light came from behind the curtains.
It was the master bedroom, the one Roscoe had shown to the cast and crew.
Silently, she closed the door, then raced over to the window. No wooden slats. Thank God! She tried the window. It didn’t budge.
And if she broke the glass, he’d come straight to this room.
Quickly, she turned and scanned the space. Where could she go? Under the bed? It was the first place he’d look. The wardrobe? The second.
There was nowhere else.
She had to fight.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she ran behind the door and lifted the knife. She held it so tightly, her knuckles ached.
Breathe. She had to breathe. Through the fear and the panic and the crippling anxiety.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, each one making her heart pound harder.
She’d replicated this fear a hundred times. Played the hunted so well, the viewers could feel her fear as their own.
But there was no acting needed now.
Her gaze caught on the red dot in the corner of the room.
Anger hit her like a bullet.
Asshole! He was a sick, twisted asshole. And he wouldn’t win. He wouldn’t kill her. She wouldn’t let him.
She stood a little taller, fingers getting a better grip on the knife.
She listened as he entered room after room. Until, finally, the door in front of her creaked open.
She waited for Roscoe to take a step inside the room. Then another.
The moment she saw his back, she plunged the knife into his shoulder.
Crap.
She’d been aiming for his back.
But it was too late.
He spun so fast, she was pulled off her feet and her hand slipped from the handle of the knife.
He stared at her, mouth gaping, rage blackening his eyes. But he didn’t move. Not as she crawled backward. Not when she used the doorframe to help herself stand.
He was still frozen, as if he couldn’t believe she’d stabbed him again, when she spun and ran, ducking into the room closest to the stairs.
Again, sunlight bled between the curtains.
She closed the door to the girl’s bedroom and raced to the window.
Hope thrashed at her ribs when she spotted the small latch.
She flicked it open and gripped the bottom of the frame.
At first, there was nothing. No groan of wood. No wobble of movement. Nothing at all.
No. She was not accepting that. If Roscoe found her, she’d be trapped and weaponless. She was not going to die today.
Scrunching her eyes, she groaned and pulled, putting all her strength into getting the damn thing open.
There was a sudden jolt in the wood. A slight opening. A whisper of wind on her skin.
Yes.
A bang sounded somewhere in the house, almost like a gun firing.
Her head swung around.
Was that Roscoe? Did he have a gun?
She turned back to the window and yanked harder.
Come on, come on, come on!
Slowly, the window inched open, until the groan of wood that hadn’t moved in years became a loud screech. But she didn’t have time to worry about that. She just needed out.
When there was enough space to squeeze through, she pushed her torso through the window. She was almost out when the searing pain of a knife slicing into her calf registered. It was so instant, so savage, she screamed.
Roscoe yanked the knife out, and she rolled halfway down the porch roof before catching herself on the old tiles.
Air hissed between her teeth, her body starting to shake from shock. But she wasn’t letting herself shut down.
She pushed to her feet. Fire burned up her leg and she immediately fell, a whimper leaving her throat.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Roscoe setting a phone camera against the wall. Even here, he wanted to film.
Crawl, Emily. Put some distance, any distance, between you.
She started to move, but she was too slow, her leg a dead weight behind her.
Suddenly he was on top of her, knife against her throat once he’d yanked her to her feet, spinning them to face the camera.
“This is it,” he whispered. “The big finale. It’ll go down as the most real film ever made, and I’ll become infamous as the greatest director who ever lived.”
“No. You’ll go to prison. And your ‘footage’ will be buried in police evidence. No one will see it. Ever. And your name will be forgotten.”
He growled, the knife pressing so hard to her skin that pain stung her neck. It paled in comparison to the stab wound in her leg.
“You’re wrong,” he seethed. “But you won’t live long enough to know that. You won’t—”
Suddenly, Ryan appeared in the window. One swift move and he was out on the roof, gun aimed right at Roscoe’s head.
The Yukon was the first thing Ryan saw as he pulled up in front of the abandoned mansion.
Roscoe’s rental.
He was here. They were here.
He slammed his truck to a stop out front, Zac coming up beside him.
“Call the team and get them here,” Ryan called over his shoulder as he raced up the steps. “You go back door, I’ll go front.”
He tried the handle. Locked. And all the windows on the ground floor were boarded over.
He could pick the lock, but it would take too long.
Instead, he stepped back, took aim, and fired.
Chips of wood exploded into the air, a hole punching through between the door and the frame. With one massive slam of his shoulder, the door gave way.
Ryan stepped inside, Glock close to his body as he scanned the living room. Candles cast dim light over the space, but that wasn’t where he went. He moved toward the room just past the stairs, the one where light and noise was coming from.
He stepped inside and froze.
The fuck was this?
Screen after screen showing different attacks. On Faye. Preston. Melanie.
Emily.
A smashed flat-screen lay on the floor.
Someone had already been here.
Emily and Roscoe?
A heart-wrenching scream pierced the air.
Ryan sprinted back into the hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
At the top, he went into the first bedroom, the one with light pouring out. A window stood open across the room. He raced over and looked out.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Emily. Held by Roscoe. A knife to her throat.
He leapt onto the roof. Then he trained his Glock on the fucker. “Let her go.”
Roscoe shook his head. “Drop the gun, Ryan.”
“No. You put the knife down. Now.”
Roscoe’s deep laugh cut through the air as he stepped back, too close to the edge. “I’m in control here. I have a knife to Emily’s throat. I can kill her anytime I want. Or you can shoot me, and both of us can fall off this roof. You choose.”
He was right. Ryan could lunge toward them, but he might not make it. Roscoe held the power.
With a low growl, Ryan slowly lowered his pistol to the roof.
Roscoe shook his head. “No. Drop it over the side.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He lifted the Glock, pressed the mag release, and caught the magazine in his other hand. Then he racked the slide. Once clean, he dropped everything over the side of the roof.
As he did, he caught sight of Zac circling around below, behind Roscoe.
Zac could shoot, he was a perfect shot. Get Roscoe right in the head. But if Roscoe moved suddenly or the bullet went clean through him, Emily could get hit. It was too risky. And even if it didn’t, like Roscoe said, she could go down with him.
Ryan inched forward. “What’s the plan, Roscoe?”
“Create an infamous ending for my movie.”
Another step forward, hands up, eyes only for Roscoe. “This isn’t a movie. This is real fucking life. And you’re looking down the barrel of a long stint in prison.”
“They’ll have to catch me first. You really think I didn’t plan for this? I know exactly where I’m going. I’ll be safe and sound as I watch the world’s response to my art.”
“Killing people is an art to you?” Another step closer. Two more and he’d be within reaching distance.
“Creating something worth watching is art. Creating something people will remember and talk about.”
“You really think people will remember this? It’ll be a two-second segment on the news, and the next night, there’ll be a different feature, and they’ll forget all about you.”
Fury cut through Roscoe’s expression.
Emily met Ryan’s gaze, her own flicking downward.
It was his only hint before she stomped on Roscoe’s foot.
Ryan used the second of distraction to lunge forward and grab the wrist that held the knife. He yanked it away from Emily’s throat even as he shoved her forward.
He and Roscoe dropped to the roof. He squeezed the man’s wrist until he felt a bone snap. Roscoe screamed. The knife dropped.
Immediately, Roscoe threw his head forward, an attempt to headbutt Ryan.
Ryan dodged it easily.
“You’ve ruined everything!” Roscoe yelled, before throwing a knee up.
Ryan rolled to the side to avoid a knee to the balls.
“Watch out!” Emily cried.
Ryan didn’t see it in time. Pain lanced through him as Roscoe plunged a small dagger into his side.
That was all it took. One moment of distraction and Roscoe weaseled his way out from beneath him, shot to his feet, and lunged for Emily.
The unsteady movement threw Roscoe off-balance.
“No!”
The shout had barely left Ryan’s mouth when Roscoe’s heels hit the edge of the roof.
He fell back.
Ryan dove forward, grabbing Emily by the arm as she went over the edge with Roscoe. But the bastard had a firm hold on her other wrist.
A single gunshot rang through the air.
Roscoe dropped, hitting the concrete beneath them, eyes open, gunshot wound to the temple.
One glance. That was all the asshole got before Ryan pulled Emily up and scooped her into his arms.
“You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” she whispered back, digging her head into his chest.
Alive. She was alive. And Roscoe was dead.
It was over.