Page 17 of Madness Blooms

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the bedroom door close.

Chapter

Eight

HER

Ispent the night cowering in my bedroom with a steak knife.

I tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. When I finally drifted off, terrifying nightmares plagued me.

In them, I find myself in a desolate and lifeless place, where I’m relentlessly pursued by the masked killer. I run—darting through woods, tripping over fallen gnarled branches—always looking over my shoulder. But he always, inevitably, catches up. I fight, but he’s stronger than me, his reflexes faster. My cries for help go unheard as he pushes my face down into the dirt, cementing me in place. He stabs me—once, twice, three times—before walking away, leaving me to die in a pool of my own blood.

Suddenly, I awaken in a heap, entangled in my blankets, the knife still gripped tightly in my hand. The memory of the previous night comes rushing back, causing me to break down in tears. Humiliation burns through me; no matter how much I scrubbed my skin in the shower, nothing could cleanse the shame and guilt of getting off to that man’s touch.

I don’t even know how that bastard got inside the house to begin with. I locked all the doors and windows. Did he pick the locks? Steal a key? I comb through my thoughts but come up with nothing. I hiccup, no longer feeling safe in my home.

Maybe I’m not safe anywhere anymore.

Fatigue seeps into every cell as I try to haul myself out of bed. My mouth is dry as a bone. Reluctantly, I leave the steak knife behind and make my way to the second-floor bathroom to get some water. I realize I need to find something more practical for self-defense. Maybe Austin has a switchblade I can borrow?Probably should pick up some mace, too.

I wipe away my tears and compose myself as best as I can before heading downstairs. I have work today, but I don’t have the will to go—not after last night. George won’t like it and might even fire me for calling off on such short notice. But I don’t think I’m strong enough to not break right now.

Mom is in the kitchen, pouring herself coffee. Scalding hot liquid splashes into a ceramic mug and the smell of menthol fills the air. I guess she started smoking again. As I walk past and into the living room, she pokes her head out.

I must look worse than I thought.

“You okay, Grace?” she asks.

As I pick up the phone, a sense of dread washes over me. The voice of the killer—because who else could it be?—repeats like a broken record in my head. My body trembles and I almost drop the handset. “Yeah, I’m fine,” my voice quavers, the lie heavy on my tongue.

“You’re not dressed,” she points out. “Don’t you have work?”

Gripping the handset with white knuckles, my stomach churns with a queasy blend of acid and uneasiness. “I don’t feel good,” I answer. “I’m gonna see if I can take today off.”

Behind me, the TV is on at a low volume. A news bulletin draws my attention, and I stare at the screen, my mouth gaping. Mom enters the room, sipping her coffee, and turns up the volume to watch the report.

“This morning, a body was found at a home on Rhett Lane. The victim has been identified as George Tyler, the fifty-three-year-old owner of Angelo’s jewelry outlet at the local mall.” My eyes bulge out of my skull as he continues. “A brutal slaying of another Ashburn resident occurred yesterday. With the similarities to other killings in the state, authorities are investigating whether this is the work of a serial killer. If you have any information, please?—”

I shriek, causing Mom to blink in shock and spin around, her coffee sloshing against the inside of the mug. I fall to the floor and pull my legs against my chest, rocking back and forth.

“Are there any extra keys? Spare ones?” My voice is unnervingly calm, like the rocking is the only thing holding me together.

She seems unsure how to respond. Mom’s never been good at this—unlike Dad. She shifts her stance as she mulls the question in her head, desperate to ignore my outburst in favor of what she hopes is a rational conversation. “Not that I recall …” She trails off before snapping her fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s right. There’s a spare key buried in the old potted plant on the porch. I almost forgot about it.”

“He must have made a copy of it then,” I murmur, my mind drifting away like a bad dissociative episode.

With rare concern etched in her tired features, she takes a step closer. “What are you talking about?Whomust have made a copy?” I bat her hand away as she reaches for me. “Grace, you look ill. Maybe you should?—”

“We need a security system,” I say, rising abruptly. “And we need to change the locks as soon as possible.”

“What are you trying to say?” She reaches out to place a palm on my forehead, but I flinch away. “I understand it’s upsetting to hear about your boss on the news, but you need to calm down and tell me what you’re talking about.”

I feel myself shatter and begin to cry. “The other night,” I croak out between sniffles, “I was followed while walking home from work. A-and I was … I got hurt. And my boss, he’s been—was—harassing me, and …” I sob uncontrollably as bits and pieces of the truth spill forth.

Her brows knit together, her lips pursing.

And for the first time since I was a child, she hugs me.

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