“What the hell,” I mumble as I drive along my street and notice the police cars lined up. “Good God, not again.”
My heartbeat thunders in my chest the second I catch sight of the police tape sealing off Mrs. Prattle’s house.
“No, no, no,” I say under my breath, pulling to the side of the road hastily. I’m out of the car before I can think it through. Wes and Vanessa are talking to a neighbor, their expressions grim, and they don’t notice me slipping past them, stepping under the taped-off area until I’m inside the house.
The metallic tang of blood hits me like a brick wall, making mystomach churn, but I force myself to keep moving, wobbling unsteadily down the narrow corridor into the small living room.
Until the pools of red soaking into the couch and carpet blur my vision, making my knees buckle.
“No,” I say, my hand finding the wall as I fight to stay upright. My breath is shallow and rapid, my pulse roaring in my ears.Mrs. Prattle. What the hell happened here? Last night’s episode was set in the library. This… this doesn’t fit. What’s going on?
“Scarlett?”
The voice sounds distant, muffled, like I’m underwater. I try to focus, but everything feels disjointed, surreal. Oh God, I can’t breathe.
“Scarlett?” The voice comes into focus this time, and so does Rafael’s face. Gray, worried eyes. A straight nose that once nuzzled the back of my neck. Soft, full lips that he used to press kisses to my cheeks. “Are you okay?”
Someone says something in the background, but I can’t make out what. Rafael does, though, because he turns and says, “I know she’s not supposed to be here.” Then he faces me again, his hand gripping my shoulder. I should hate his touch, I know I should, but it grounds me just enough to feel the floor beneath my feet.
“Can you walk?”
“Penelope?” I manage as I point at the traces of blood. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed glass. I don’t think I’ve ever called Mrs. Prattle by her first name before, but it slips out now.
“She’s safe at her son’s place. This was Mrs. Brattle’s next-door neighbor,” Rafael says grimly. “His wife said he used the spare keys last night when they saw something across the street at Mrs. Brattle’s house. He must have surprised the killer.”
It takes me a second to process, then my chest heaves as relief washes over me. It’snotMrs. Prattle. But it lasts only a second before it’s swallowed by guilt.
“Rob,” I say. “Oh my God, Rob.”
Rafael nods solemnly.
Rob Wilkins. One of Ethan’s old teachers, and the man who mowed my lawn without fail every month and never asked for anything in return. The man who’s now… I don’t even want to think about it.
“B-but I don’t get it,” I stammer.
“We don’t, either,” Rafael says, holding me up. “Do you have any idea why the killer would stray from the pattern? Is there something in the last book about… axes or logs or—”
“Logs?” I interrupt.
“Yes. They were placed around the body like a…”
“Like a pyre,” I finish for him, my voice hollow.
His brows furrow. “But that wasn’t part of the book, was it?”
I can’t answer. My legs feel like they’re moving on their own as I push past him and step into the kitchen.
Rob’s body lies sprawled on the cold tiled floor. His arms are pinned at awkward angles, and a pool of dark, viscous blood spreads beneath him. Around him, logs of wood are arranged in a grotesque pattern. His shirt is torn, the pale flesh of his chest marred by deep gashes, slashes so clean they almost look surgical.
His eyes are wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, frozen in an expression of terror that makes bile rise in my throat.
“Rafael,” I call weakly, and in an instant, he’s at my side. His hand steadies me.
“You’re okay,” Rafael says soothingly. He’s next to me, his handstroking my hair and tucking it away from my face. Leaning against him, I walk outside.
I’m supposed to be furious with him. Hell, Iam. But I can’t afford pride right now. My heart is hammering, my ribs straining against each inhale as I crouch over the grass.
He’s quickly kneeling beside me, his forehead creased with worry, but he doesn’t look nauseated—or bothered at all.
