When I press my ear to the door, what I hear chills me to the marrow.
Fingernails claw at the wall. Scratching.
More muffled groans.
Get it together, Skylar.
My mouth goes dry. My hand, which holds the scalpel, is trembling. Sweating. The damn thing nearly slips before I tighten my hold around it.
Focus.Mom’s voice is louder in my ear. She urges me to be critical of the situation.
To be logical in the face of so many emotions, the most dominant of them being bone-shaking fear.
The sharp command reminds me how cool and collected my parents are.
Right before they leave for the hospital, they have this aura about them. Ice in their eyes. Confidence in their posture.
Pretending I’m them, that I’m a certified surgeon, gets me what I’ve been desperate for.
A cold fucking heart.
I let out a long breath. Lock my teeth. Squeeze my scalpel.
I listen.
This time, not out of fear.
This time, I’m the predator.
Thunk.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The sound is far enough away that I know exactly where it’s coming from. What it is.
Bronwyn and Easton are being dragged down the stairs.
That’s my cue to get out of this room. No more stalling, no more waiting for them to carry out these games outside. They might kill my people while I’m up here, waiting for the right moment to strike.
As I crack open the door, I blow out a relieved breath when the hinges don’t squeak.
Then I peek my head out.
The empty hallway smells of fresh urine, and it tears me apart. My face crumples. Poor Bronwyn. She must’ve been so scared that she wet herself.
That’s the last push I need.
I open the door wider. Step out into the hallway.
My scalpel leads the way, stretched out in front of me. My steps are slow, careful.
A dark, foreboding weight heats my back. That feeling of being watched returns with such intensity that it steals my breath.
Ridiculous.
The guest room they put me in is empty. I know because I’ve just been there. No Colberts hiding, no one under the bed.
I’m alone here. Must be.
