Page 34 of Half the Summer's Night
Terror squeezes my throat shut, and I know, regardless of whether it’s my nameless killer or someone much, much worse, I need to figure out a way to get out of this house.
I stand still, holding my breath. I can hear someone moving downstairs, slow and purposeful. Fuck.
I immediately shut off the living room lamp, plunging me into darkness. Then I skitter across the floor, moving as lightly as I can, and stick my head out into the hallway.
No one’s here.
I know damn well I should call the cops, and I know damn well why I’m not, even if I can barely admit it to myself. I want it to be him. The killer I’ve tracked for two years. I don’t want the cops showing up and shooting him dead. I want?—
Footsteps thump on the stairs. I stumble backward, staring at the stairwell at the end of the hall. I fumble with the phone, typing911into the dial pad but not pressing the call button.
And then I wait, my breath shaky and ragged.
A light dances across the stair landing. I slip backward toward my room, clutching my phone, fear and excitement wrapping tight around my thoughts.Please be him.Please be him.
A dark figure steps onto the top of the stairs. And for a second, I feel a burst of relief. Because it looks like him—dressed all in black, his face disguised.
But he turns toward me and stops, and I realize how wrong I am.
He’s shorter and thinner than the man who visited me last night. And he’s not wearing a mask, like I thought. He has a stocking pulled over his face that distorts his features.
“There you are, you ugly cunt,” he snarls.
I scream and, in a moment of panicked stupidity, I hurl my phone at him instead of pressing the call button. He ducks, and the phone sails past him and hits the wall with a crack.
Then he laughs. “Was that supposed to do something?” he chuckles, stepping toward me. He has something in his hand. Rope, I think.
“Get out of my house.” My voice comes out thin and tremulous. I take a cautious step backward. One step closer to my bedroom. I have a lock on the door. I can barricade myself in. Find a way to call the police.
Because this definitely isn’t mykiller.
“No,” the intruder says. “I’ve got big plans for you. Come on. You might even like it, little slut that you are.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Another step backward. My bedroom feels like it’s a million miles away.
“You haven’t guessed yet?” he laughs, holding up the rope. “Come on, bitch. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Tears brim in my eyes. I can see my phone sitting dark on the floor, but a murderer is standing in front of it. And not a murderer who’s going to ask to touch me, either.
“You killed Olivia, didn’t you?”
The intruder laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I made her suck my cock right before I split her face in half.”
Revulsion and terror spike through me. For a moment, the room seems to spin. I press my hand up against the wall, trying to steady myself. The second-floor landing is wide, wide enough that I might be able to run past him and grab my phone and get out of the house.
“I fucked her real good before she died,” the intruder says. “And I’m going to do the same thing to you. Nowkneel.”
He lunges at me. I scream and dart sideways, managing to shove him in the process so he slams up against the far wall. He lands with a thump, and I forget my phone. All I can focus on is tearing down the stairs in a stumbling panic.
“Get back here, you stupid fucking whore!” he bellows, his footsteps shaking the landing. I leap off the steps and whip around the hallway. Glass glitters on the floor, and the front door hangs crooked on its hinges, letting in curls of warm summer air.
That’s all I focus on, getting to that door, even as I can hear the intruder thundering down the stairs behind me. If I can get outside, I can get away from him.
I fling the door open and leap out onto the porch?—
And slam into a broad, masculine chest.
13
