My skin tingles. “So you think I’m going crazy?”
“No, Lilac. I don’t. I think you just need to get some sleep and see a psychologist.”
What was the point of this call? I thought I could count on him for help, but I was wrong. I should’ve known he wouldn’t believe me. But I can’t blame him because it does sound crazy.
I exhale sharply through my teeth. “I’ll talk to you later, Ambrose.”
I tap the red button.
Maybe he’s a ghost haunting me. I shake my head. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
I need to shut my mind off and sleep, so I walk to the en suite bathroom, grab my sleeping pills, then stride to the kitchen. I pour myself a tall glass of wine, shove a white pill into my mouth with the fruity liquid, then walk to the living room. I lie in the chair in front of the lit fireplace.
Darkness overtakes me.
Lilac
My eyes blink open, and my head pounds. Mixing sleeping pills and alcohol is bad. The sun peeks through the crack in the dark curtains, blinding me. I sit up and look around. I stare at the fireplace, and my heart hammers in my chest as I search for the locket. It’s completely gone.
I think I hallucinated because there isn’t a sign of the necklace, and a new fire log is in the place of the old one. The maid must have cleaned it up.
Fuck.
Someone is hunting me. Playing tricks on me. There’s no way I dreamt it or imagined the necklace. If someone knows my secret identity, then they have me by the neck, and I have to mind myP’s andQ’s. I have to let someone know the killer is after me. I need to call Ambrose back, apologize to him, and let him know what’s really going on at the campus.
If I tell Irvin someone was in the mansion, I’ll have to explain how the locket ended up here. Then I’d have to tell him what’sreally going on. If Irvin finds out who I really am, will he let me go?
I shake my head. I can’t tell him because then I’d lose my protection from said serial killer.
Here’s what I know: the killer killed three students on campus. The students’ fathers are a part of the American Billionaire Club. The killer is a skilled killer, and he only attacks at night.
I need to do some digging, figure out what I have in common with the victims. Usually, serial killers have a pattern. They like to collect things from their victims. So far, the rumor is the IDs are missing from each victim. But why would they want to use my past to taunt me?
I exhale and type into Google:How to spot a serial killer for fiction purposes.Can’t have the feds knocking on my door.
It gives me a long list of things, but none of it helps me. Someone knows my past and decided to play with my mind. Is that the goal of a serial killer—to play with their victim’s mindset before killing them?
Make them pay for their mistakes in life?
Irvin is a suspect, so I can’t use him for information even if I wanted to.
Last night plays in my mind. The guards showed me the footage of no one in the backyard or the front yard. So how would they have gotten away so easily? Unless they were in the house. But they would have been spotted on camera.
“What should I do?”
My voice bounces off the walls.
I have no idea how I’m going to handle this. Do I keep it to myself or reach out? What if I’m in real danger and don’t even know it? Maybe this mansion is supposed to make you crazy. Maybe I’ve been cooped up here too long, and now everything’s playing tricks on me.
I get up from the couch and pace the floor. I check all of the windows—they’re still locked. I check the entertainment center. The stuff has been moved back, but I’m sure it’s the maids’ doing.
I leave the living room and spot a maid sweeping the long hallway.
Her sandy hair falls over her shoulders, and she hums “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles.
She looks up and plasters a smile across her face.
I stride to her and smile back. “I have a weird question.”
