Page 132 of Shadows in Bloom

It’s only now that the sound of spattering rain filters through the drugged haze that clings to my consciousness. She touches my arm. “You should come.”

Before I can respond, she flashes one final smile, then escapes inside, calling out, “See you tomorrow, Marshall.”

I look back and smile politely. Monica has flirted with me for a while now, always catching me between classes to exchange a few words. My attention soon shifts past her to Cruz, who laughs at something the leggy woman says. His perfect teeth gleam, showcasing a hint of sharp fang and cinnamon gum between his molars.

The foul taste returns tenfold, sour and vile. I swing back around, the rain soaking through my shirt as I set off toward my car.

CHAPTER 3

CRUZ

Iknew he would try to push me away. It’s a nuisance but one I foresaw. What I didn’t foresee is the attention he’s starting to draw now that the female teaching population has gotten wind of his newly separated status. That’s the thing about Marshall. He sells himself short. Always quick to downplay his attractive looks and easy charm.

I haven’t waited patiently on the sidelines for his wife to slip up and for the perfect moment to present itself, only to stand by while some other woman moves in on him. No, I’ll eliminate any road obstacles. That’s what Monica Phillips, a twice-divorced English teacher, has become. A fucking obstacle, one of many standing in my way of getting what I want.

What I crave.

What I deserve.

I’m so fed up with all these sluts thinking I’ll just stand by while they take what’s rightfully mine. I made him come last night. No one else. It was our combined release I smeared over his parted lips.

Pulling my hood over my head to hide my hair, I glance back at the winding driveway. Ms. Phillips lives on the outskirts of town, in a remote area surrounded by dense woodland and the occasional derelict barn. I reach up and adjust the Jigsaw mask I found buried at the back of my closet from years ago when I would go trick-or-treating with my friends. It sure is coming in handy now as I tighten my grip on the chainsaw in my hand.

A mild breeze moves through the fir trees, shifting the wind chime that hangs from the porch railing, and haunted, tinkling notes play in the background while I crack my neck. It’s time.

I press down on the doorbell with my leather-gloved thumb and wait for the light to come on. Her silhouette approaches the door, visible through the lace curtains in the window beside the entryway. Hidden out of sight, I watch her tighten her robe before the lock sounds.

Anticipation thrums through my veins. I can’t keep still as I struggle to stop myself from bouncing on my heels. Sweat dampens my neck. My imagination runs ahead of me, torturing me with visions of them together—Ms. Phillips entangled with Marshall in bed, naked and clammy, moaning his name while he thrusts inside her with that massive cock of his.

The moment the door opens, her face drains of color. She clutches her robe, staring at my Jigsaw mask with widened eyes. Then, as if in slow motion, her gaze drops to the chainsaw in my hand, and my heart beats harder in response, even as a numbness spreads within me.

With a sharp pull, the chainsaw roars to life.

Ms. Phillips screams, terror oozing from her every pore as she spins around and flees down the hallway. Her silk gown billows out behind her now that her modesty is lost beneath a layer of dread.

Stepping over the threshold, noting the countless framed photographs on the flowery walls, I shut the door. Ms. Phillips is hiding somewhere, cowering where she thinks I can’t find her.

I walk deeper into the house and peer into the small kitchen. An empty wine bottle sits on the counter, the dark woods visible through the window above the sink. My heavy boots clomp on the floor as I continue down the hall, the sounds muted by the chainsaw.

The living room is dimly lit, and a half-full glass of wine is forgotten on the table. I let my gaze slide past it to the action movie on the TV and the small lamp on the windowsill, which provides the sole illumination.

Carrying on my way, I ascend the carpeted stairs. Time slows as I pause at the top. Where is she? I think I quite like the hunt. My boots sink into the thick carpet, silencing my steps. Not that it makes a difference when the chainsaw roars like a beast.

“Ms. Phillips,” I call out over the noise. “It didn’t have to be this way if you had stayed away from what’s mine. You left me no choice.”

I kick open one of the doors to a spare bedroom and scan the space. A single bed sits pushed up against the wall, flowery curtains frame the windows, and there’s a sewing machine on a desk beside the door.

A bead of sweat trails down my spine as I step back.

My eyes catch on the next door in line and I walk around a console table, placing one booted foot in front of the other. The sound of the chainsaw rings in my ears. She’s so close that I can smell her potent fear in the air like the seductive notes of a delicate perfume.

As I pause outside the room, a smirk curves my lips. “Bingo.”

Ramming my shoulder into the door, I grunt beneath the strain. When that doesn’t work, I drive my boot into the wood and it flies open to reveal a terrified Ms. Phillips huddled in the corner.

I like her tears.

Crossing the threshold, I round the bed and she shoots up and jumps onto the surface, running across the springing mattress. She’s not fast enough. I strike, the chainsaw meeting the flesh of her ankle.

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