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I twist to face the door.

“Hey?” a man calls out, voice low. “Franklin said I should bring you something to eat.”

I glance at the balcony window, trying to gauge the time and how long I’ve been asleep. Probably not long because it’s still dark out, though the faintest hint of sunlight peeps between the furthest trees in the distance.

I don’t want to answer the door.

Because now I’m awake, all the fear from before has returned two-fold.

I tried to run.

Franklin knew I would. Probably he instigated it all along so he could see what I would do.

And he killed Shane.

Now I’m alone in a house of people who couldn’t care if I lived or died.

“Look, I’m not here to hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking?” the man’s voice is a little louder, almost like he’s leaned even closer to talk through the door.

I clear my throat and slowly, awkwardly ease myself into an upright position.

As I place my feet on the hardwood floors, I realize I have blood on them that I didn’t notice before.

Shane’s blood.

I must have run right through it to get back to the house.

Swallowing hard, I clear my throat again as I focus on the man at the door I wish would go away. “I don’t want any food.”

The floorboard outside creaks, like he’s shuffling from foot to foot. “Well, I can just leave it out here if you want?”

“Thanks,” I say, not moving from the bed.

I don’t know why Franklin has sent someone to bring me food, especially when it’s so late. Why would I want to eat now after what I just saw him do?

“Okay then,” the man says. “I’ll just set this down for you.”

I listen, but I don’t hear him putting anything down.

When he walks away, his footsteps sound heavy, and I wish I’d been awake when he first came to my door so I’d know why him being here is making me so uneasy.

When I can no longer hear his footsteps, I get to my feet and hesitate before walking over to the door.

If he was here to hurt you, he’d have just forced his way in, I tell myself. He wouldn’t have bothered with any pretense at all.

But then why do I think he was lying?

I linger beside the closed door, not eager to open it, but not eager to return to my bed until I’ve investigated the hallway either.

The dream—nightmare—definitely unnerved me and I’m on edge, expecting trouble when I’m probably just being paranoid.

I grip the door handle, twist it and quickly open it, hoping to surprise anyone who might be out there waiting to surprise me.

But as I lean out of my room into a dark hallway, no one is there.

There’s a tray just outside my room with a bottle of water on its side, a red apple, and an unopened packet of jerky on it.

“He was telling the truth,” I mutter, smiling at my own paranoia.

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