Page 41 of Follow Her Down
But not calling the police?Leaving her here?Letting the rot seep deeper into the foundations of this already haunted house?
No.
Daddy’s shadows tighten convulsively around me, colder than the grave.
I push to my feet, and the shadows resist then fall away like cold water.My phone screen glows brightly in the oppressive gloom, and I hover my thumb over the keypad.Nine…one…
Every digit feels like a hammer blow on the coffin lid of my safety.But safety was never the goal.Power was.Control.Revenge.
Let him see me standing over a corpse in my own basement, cool as marble.Let him see how I don’t flinch.Not anymore.Not even for this.Even though he doesn’t know the real me, he’ll find the girl underneath isn’t scared.
She’s feral.
She’s waiting.
I press the final one.The ring tone echoes in the damp, rotten silence, a tiny, electronic death knell.The game just changed.The gameboard just got bloodier.
But this time, I’ll be the queen instead of the pawn.
19
Eddie
RedHandshasturnedthe department into feeding time at a zoo.
Everyone wants a piece of the action—detectives who usually work property theft, the lab techs who typically process DUI blood samples, even the desk sergeant who hasn’t left his chair in fifteen years.All of them huddle around the whiteboard.
I hang back, nursing coffee that tastes like motor oil.Seriously, how hard is it to get a good cup of coffee anymore?
The victim from Sera Vale’s basement—Melissa Holloway, twenty-six, reported missing three weeks ago—smiles from her photo.Her hand is slightly raised, like she’s waving hello to the man who would eventually murder her and paint her nails bloodred.
I can’t stop thinking about how Sera looked standing over that corpse in her basement.Not shocked.Not horrified.Not even disturbed.Just…slightly annoyed, maybe.Like finding a dead woman was an inconvenience rather than a trauma.
I’ve seen grown men—hardened cops with twenty years on the force—weep over strangers’ bodies.But she didn’t even blink.And that means something.
It means she’s either seen worse or done worse.
“Crowe!”
Sheriff Vincent’s voice cuts through the station chatter.He’s standing in the hallway outside his office, his face thunderous.When our eyes meet, he jerks his head in a clear command that says,Heel, boy.
I follow him into his office.He shuts the door with more force than necessary, the blinds rattling against the glass, then he reaches behind his desk and produces a plastic shopping bag.He thrusts it into my hands.
“Test this,” he orders.“Right fucking now.I have to go speak to the press again about this Red Hands nonsense.”
I peer inside the bag and—Jesus Christ—it’s shit.A literal pile of coiled turds.
“Sheriff…?”
“Someone’s leaving these on my porch.On my driveway.Lighting them on fire so I have to put them out.”His face contorts with rage.“I want a name.”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral.Some poor bastard is literally leaving flaming bags of shit for the sheriff to stomp out.It’s juvenile, petty, and absolutely hilarious.
“Uh…all right,” I manage.
“They think they can mock me.”Vincent’s voice drops, his fury turning glacial.“I want to know whose hands touched this.Down to the cell.Down to the breath.I want their name so I can teach them what it costs to spit on Vincent Harrow.”
His intensity is disproportionate.It’s shit, not a bomb.But I’ve seen this before—Vincent can’t stand being disrespected.His pride isn’t just wounded; it’s hemorrhaging.
