Page 101 of Sinister Legacy
Inhaling a shaky breath, I pause and listen. Nothing but thick, oppressive silence surrounds me. My own heartbeat roars in my ears with my next step.
I reach the top of the stairs, closing my eyes briefly before descending the steps, careful to step where it doesn’t creak. It’s freezing down here. As I cross the landing into the kitchen, I find out why. The backdoor is wide open, allowing the cold breeze to blow through the first floor.
While my heart was racing earlier, I’m sure it has stopped now, but it soon jumps back to life, thudding heavily in my chest.
Against my better judgment, I step into the kitchen and wrap my arms around myself to ward off the cold. The floor is wet from the snow that has drifted inside and melted on the marble tiles. My eyes skate up to the window and the cop car visible outside. The officers inside look bored out of their minds.
Crossing the kitchen, careful not to step on the broken glass from when I threw the vase at King, I quickly shut the door and lock it. Then a thought occurs to me. I open it back up, staring down at the footsteps in the snow leading back into the kitchen. My shaky breath comes out in a puff. I shut the door on autopilot before backing away. He’s been in the house.
Maybe he’s still here?
As I step away from the door, my back meets the kitchen island. I let out a yelp, my heart jumping to my throat, and turn around.
My phone is upstairs. I could run back outside and alert the cops, but they’re proving as useful as a sack of potatoes. Too busy drinking coffee and taking turns napping while the other plays Angry Birds or something equally lame on their phone.
I swipe a knife from the block on the kitchen counter. The sound it makes as it leaves the block soothes my mounting fear. It’s better than nothing. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I exit the kitchen and enter the hallway.
A gust of icy wind shifts my hair off my shoulders, and the hand clutching the knife begins to shake. “What the hell?” I whisper, staring at the wide-open front door. Another sudden gust causes it to slam into the wall. My heart explodes in my chest.
I run over and shut it, then whirl around with my arm outstretched in front of me. My grip tightens on the knife until my knuckles feel as if they might pop.
The killer is toying with me. Scaring me on purpose.
Slowly inching forward, I peer inside the living room. The morning sunlight casts streaks on the floor as it shines in through the half-closed blinds.
My gaze snags on the couch, and my cheeks heat at the reminder of how King snuck up on me from behind and pressed a knife to my throat. He’s the Lucifer to my Hell. Or maybe I’m the Lilith to his Lucifer?
The living room is empty, so I make my way back upstairs to check each room. I find nothing. If the killer was here, he’s gone now. Maybe he entered through the kitchen and hid in the living room while I went downstairs before escaping through the front door. Maybe I forgot to lock the doors properly last night, and I’m imagining all of this because I’m paranoid.
Pressing my shoulder to the door, I blow out a breath as I enter my room. The stress is getting to me.
As I shut the door and turn around, I pause.
There’s a red mask on my bed.
And not just any mask.
A red devil’s mask.
The last time I found a mask, the killer made me play a deadly game. A game I couldn’t win.
I grab my phone from where it’s plugged in on the bedside table and quickly type out a text to King’s new number.
Keira: The killer has been in my house and left a mask on my bed.
As I read it over, I realize how stupid it sounds. I delete it and type out a different message but delete that, too. Why am I messaging King? I don’t want him to come back and put himself at risk.
Tossing the phone on the bed, I reach down to grab the mask before I can change my mind. I know this is the beginning of another game, and I can’t deny the unwelcome excitement that accompanies the fear.
A folded-up note slips out as I lift the mask. I pick it up with trembling fingers and unfold it.
Your father is nearing his execution, rattling the bars of his solitary cell while praying for absolution. But it won’t come. Not for men like him. Not for scum.
Poor Keira, the daughter of a serial killer.
What do you say, sweetheart?
At least your pathetic sob story makes for a good thriller.
