Page 109 of Dirty Mechanic
And it hits me that I left the gun on the shelf.
Fuck.
The RV door creaks open.
Pause.
Footsteps. Measured. Testing. Walking the aisle.
Another pause. Then the cabinet doors open.
Then close.
Don’t check the bathroom. Don’t check the bathroom.
I hold my breath until something brushes my shoulder.
I glance down.
Eight crooked spider legs crawl across my collarbone.
My scream is instinct. Sharp and raw. I fall out of the stall, door crashing open as the intruder moves fast. Too fast.
Rain roars. Lightning flashes.
And then I see him.
Mike.
Just as a cloth clamps over my mouth and nose.
Sickly sweet.
Chloroform.
He lifts me into his arms, dragging me against his chest like a twisted mockery of an embrace.
“Hello, Belle,” he murmurs, voice like poison. “Miss me?”
I thrash. Eyes wide. Hands flailing.
But my limbs go slack.
The last thought before darkness takes me is one I can’t scream:
I left without telling Derek.
And now?
Mike has me.
The bed’s too cold.
I wake not to darkness, but to silence—a wrong kind of hush that presses against my skull and sets every nerve on fire.
“Annabelle?” My voice cracks against the quiet.
No answer.
