Page 23 of Hunting Pretty

I shrugged it off as I rummaged through my phone’s trash folder. Had I somehow accidentally deleted it?

But no. I hadn’t.

“I swear, Ebony,” I said. “Liath was being stalked. She was terrified. She saidhewas coming for her.”

I returned to my voice messages, praying that it had been some sort of glitch the first time.

I opened her voice message again.

And hit play.

But nothing played from my phone speakers except for the eerie sound of static.

Liath’s voice message had disappeared.

No. My stomach knotted so tightly it felt like my insides were twisting in on themselves, a sickening churn rising with every breath.

It hadn’t disappeared.

Someone had deleted it.

AVA

Someone had made Liath’s voice message disappear. Just like someone had made Liath disappear.

If the police weren’t going to do anything about it,Iwas going to investigate Liath’s disappearance myself.

And I knew just where to start.

My stalker.

It was too much of a coincidence that two girls—friends—from the same college were being stalked by two different people. Right?

I was sure my stalker was Liath’s stalker. My stalker took Liath.

And I was going to catch him.

“Ava? Are you alright?” Ebony’s concerned voice broke through my thoughts.

“Grand,” I lied and smoothed down the thick white linen napkin across my lap.

Ebony and I sat at the heavy black wood dining room table in stuffy red velvet wood backed chairs, cornucopias of fruit etched into the tall wood backings.

The heavy wood beams and iron chandeliers hanging above our heads made me feel like I was in a medieval banquet hall. A long row of tall, narrow windows overlooked the black night.

Ebony had inherited this Victorian mansion in the affluent Dublin area of Ballsbridge when her creepy-ass father died last year.

It was undeniably beautiful: high ceilings dripping with chandeliers; wide, dark wood staircases; gold and black damask wallpaper; and huge stone fireplaces.

But something about it creeped me out.

It felt like there were too many corners that the dim lighting didn’t reach. Too many long dark corridors. Too many icy drafts that seemed to steal in despite all the windows being closed.

We’d lived in this house for almost two years now and Istilldidn’t feel like this labyrinthian mansion was my home.

I mean, she still had her father’s wing as it was when he was alive, just covered with white sheets and a layer of dust.

Not to mention the dark dusty attic. And the floorboards that seemed to creak for no reason.

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