Tonight I’ll remind my younger stepbrother who’s in charge here.
****
When I pull into the driveway, the first thing I notice is the empty parking space beside mine.
Jamie’s car isn’t here.
Good.
A current of anticipation jolts up my spine.
I shut the Maserati door, lock it, and practically jog toward the front entryway. The polished stone steps echo under my boots, the whole mansion silent,waiting—like it knows what’s about to happen.
The Amazon package sits on the doormat. Innocent. Ordinary.
My heartbeat isn’t.
I snatch it up and head inside, slamming the door behind me before taking the stairs two at a time. My room, finally, and I toss the box onto the bed like it might detonate.
This is insane.
I know that.
But the second I grab the scissors off my desk and slice the tape open, the thrill that rushes through me is… electric. Childish. Like I’m eight years old on Christmas morning ripping into presents.
Only this “present” is meant to terrorize my stepbrother.
Yeah. Totally normal.
Not unhinged at all.
The flaps of the cardboard fall open, and the first thing I see is black fabric—sleek, matte, folded perfectly. My grin stretches impossibly wider. I’ve decided not to use any voice modulators to change my voice, I’m just going to make my voice as low as possible, so he wouldn’t recognize me. I just found a tutorial this morning.
I pull each item out one by one:
The black hoodie.
Not too oversized, not too fitted—just enough to make me a shadow.
The black jeans.
Heavy, dark, the same style I wore that night in the woods.
The boots.
Solid. Silent. Predatory.
The burner phone.
Cheap plastic and anonymity.
And then the star of the show.
The mask.
Black and red.
Skull-faced.
