Page 56 of Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

When I opened my eyes, the gleaming blade of a knife reflected the flames in the fireplace. “Who’s next?”

“Please, no…”

“So end it.” Pressing the knife to my throat, he kissed me, his warm lips and heated breath chasing away the madness that had me in its talons.

The blade nicked my throat, and I moaned at the sting. I wanted him to hurt me. To purge me. I wanted out of this madhouse.

Nate swept his tongue over my lips and nipped me with his teeth before moving back in and kissing me so fucking deep my heart gave up the fight.

Before I could change my mind, I placed my hand over his when he groaned into my mouth.

Applying pressure, I lost myself in his deadly kiss and dragged the knife across my throat, slowly, purposefully. With his drugging lips on mine, I cut myself open and bled out onto his Doc Martens.

My mouth filled with coppery blood. I choked as icy pain burned and seared through my throat, but Nate still kissed me.

The knife clattered to the floor, and he hoisted me up against the bookshelf, gripped my throat, and groaned into the kiss as blood poured between his fingers. I was fading quickly, tasting him as the darkness crept out from the room’s four corners.

Death swept me up and tore me from Nate.

The lady on the armchair threw me a severe glance from beneath her extravagant hat. “You’re late for the photograph. Get over here.”

I lifted my skirt, bowed my head, and stepped up behind her, placing my hand on her shoulder beside Alice.

The man’s mustache twitched as he perused us before disappearing beneath the black cloth.

The flash went off.

PART THREE

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

SKYLER

Sunshine filtered through the gaps in the closed curtains as a crow cawed in the distance, but that wasn’t what woke me. I had a pounding headache.

Groaning, I rolled over on my front and pulled the quilt over my head. My dry mouth tasted like shit.

As I burrowed deeper into the pillow, I paused. It smelled weird, like damp clothes left in an attic for too long and moth-eaten fabric. I shot up, scanning the room, trying to remember how I got into bed.

“What the hell was that dream?” I whispered, taking in the damask, water-damaged wallpaper that peeled away at the corners, the dead cactus in the window, and the rocking chair in the corner. A crocheted patchwork quilt lay folded over the armrest.

The walls were bare except for a crucifix above the mahogany dresser, and the wooden floor sported a faded woven rug. Heavy curtains blocked out most of the light, but a sliver of sun lit up the foot of the bed.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I tried to remember the previous night. We were partying and taking drugs. Evelyn did my clown makeup.

I slid my legs out from beneath the quilt and placed my feet down on the floor. The cheap, threadbare rug did little to ward off the cold.

Shivering, I rubbed my hands over my arms and walked up to the window to peer outside.

Pulling the curtains aside and squinting against the bright sun, I scanned the front yard. Max’s car was there, the sun glittering on the sea’s surface beyond the cliffs to the left of the property.

After reaching for my jacket and putting my shoes back on, I left the bedroom and descended the creaky stairs. The house was quiet. Too quiet. And dust particles floated in the air as I stepped into the hallway.

Where were the others? Had they left already? They couldn’t have. Max wouldn’t leave his car.

I searched each room, but the house was tidy, and there was no sign of any of them. The clean kitchen looked spotless, everything back in its place.

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