I go still.
Another sound follows—a low slide, like something hard dragging over metal.
“Brodie?” I call, heart beginning to pound. He’s the only one who would ever drop by this late. Then I glance at the old analog clock on my wall. It’s after eleven. Even he announces himself before midnight.
And he’s already been here.
Silence.
A second later, the doorknob rattles.
Every cell in my body slams into alert.
My hand finds my phone on the end table by muscle memory. I back away from the door even as my brain starts doing what it always does—mapping. Door. Window. Back patio sliders. Kitchen drawers. Distance to the gun in the bedroom safe.
“Who’s there?” I demand, voice shaking despite my best effort.
The answer is a laugh. Low. Amused. So ordinary it’s wrong.
“Knock, knock,” a man’s voice says through the door.
Cold sweeps over me, down my spine, into my fingertips.
I know that voice.
“I’m calling the police.” My thumb is already on Jack’s contact.
“Your voice is shaking, little girl,” he croons. “You’re smart to be scared.”
My heart slams against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
“Go away,” I snap, moving back until my shoulders hit the opposite wall. “The police are already on their way. And I have a gun. And cameras. You’re on all of them.”
I don’t wait for him to answer before I hit Jack’s name. The call connects on the first ring.
“Twiggy?” he barks. Background noise spills through—radio chatter, rumble of a car engine.
“He’s here.” My voice cracks. “Jack, he’s at my door.”
“What?” The word comes out pure curse. “Stay away from the windows. Do you hear me? Do not open the door.”
“You think I’m a fucking idiot?” I choke.
The laugh comes again, this time from behind me.
I spin, blood turning to ice.
The silhouette at the window to my side is massive, a smear of shadow against the faint glow of the streetlight. The glass rattles as he presses a palm flat against it, his face leaning close enough that the thin pane is the only thing between us.
Henry Thurston smiles like he has all the time in the world.
“Such a smart little girl,” he says, voice muffled but clear enough. “You figured everything out last time, didn’t you? Thought you could hide behind a screen and nobody would ever touch you.”
My stomach lurches. The room tunnels, my field of vision narrowing to his eyes and the smear of his hand.
This is impossible. He wasn’t supposed to come back. Monsters don’t double back to the same town, the same girl.
Except they do. If you hurt them enough. If you fuck with them, make things personal. Everything was very personal for us. He hurt my friends. I did everything I could to make sure that stopped.
