Then I hear footsteps.
My blood turns to ice. I reach for my phone and clutch it in trembling hands as I slide out of bed and creep toward my bedroom door. Logic tells me to stay put, to lock myself in and call for help. But some desperate part of me needs to know. Needs to see who’s down there.
I ease the door open and peer into the hallway. Nothing moves in the darkness. The footsteps have stopped.
Maybe it was just an animal. A raccoon knocking over the trash cans outside, or that stray cat that’s been hanging around, jumping through an open window.
Except all my windows are closed. I checked them myself.
I inch down the stairs, placing each foot with agonizing care to avoid creaky floorboards. The living room comes into view, empty and undisturbed. The front door is still locked. The chair I wedged under the back door handle is still in place.
Then I turn toward the kitchen.
A figure stands silhouetted in the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that makes bile rise in my throat.
“Hello, Fern.”
Robbie’s voice is exactly how I remember it. Calm. Controlled. Utterly devoid of warmth.
I stumble backward, and my hip catches the corner of the couch. “How did you get in?”
“You really should invest in better locks.” He takes a step toward me. “Did you think running to the middle of nowhere would stop me? Did you think those idiots watching the campsite would keep me out?”
My fingers fumble with my phone behind my back. “Get out of my house.”
“Your house?” He laughs, and the sound makes my skin crawl. “You don’t have a house. You don’t have anything. Everything you are, everything you have, belongs to me. You’re just too stupid to realize it.”
He lunges.
I don’t think. I just react. My hand closes around the lamp on the end table, and I swing it at his head with every ounce of strength I have. The base connects with his temple, and he staggers sideways with a grunt of pain.
It’s the only opening I’m going to get.
I run. Up the stairs, two at a time, my lungs burning and my legs shaking. His footsteps thunder behind me, close, too close. I reach my bedroom door, slam it shut, and throw my weight against it as I fumble for the lock.
The deadbolt clicks into place half a second before he hits the other side.
“Open the door, Fern.” His voice has lost its eerie calm. Now it’s pure rage. “Open the goddamn door, or I swear to God—”
I’m already dialing before he can finish the sentence, and Connor picks up right away.
“Fern?”
“He’s in my house.” The words come out in a terrified rush. “Robbie. He’s here. He’s trying to break down my bedroom door.”
“I’m coming.” His voice is hard as steel. “Don’t open that door for anyone but me.”
“Connor, please hurry. Please—”
The door shudders as Robbie throws himself against it. The wood groans but holds.
“Five minutes,” Connor assures me. “Just hold on for five minutes.”
I end the call and back away from the door, clutching my phone like a weapon. The pounding continues. Robbie is screaming something on the other side, threats and promises and words that blur together into meaningless noise.
Then my stomach lurches.
The nausea hits me like a truck. One moment, I’m pressed against the far wall, and the next I’m on my knees, scrabbling for the trash bin beside my nightstand. I barely get it under my face before I’m retching and my entire body convulses as I empty my stomach.
