Before I can call out, the figure is in my room, moving fast.
I scramble away from it, the sheets tangling around my hands and legs, hindering my escape.
Then something damp covers my mouth and nose, and an acrid, sickly sweet smell floods my senses.
I try to twist out of the iron grip, to push them off, but my limbs turn heavy, sluggish.
The air burns in my lungs.
My vision blurs, the edges closing in.
The last thing I feel is the cloth sliding from my face as the world tilts away.
And as I fade into oblivion, I’m struck by the awful realization that I might not get the chance to fix the terrible mistake I’ve made.
33
GIO
“Stephanie!” My voice cuts through the night as I whisper yell, hoping she’s inside and will be pissed if I startle her for bursting through the door.
I didn’t even think to call ahead, but considering the door’s already ajar, I think it’s too late now.
Still, my stomach sinks when I get no answer. And though I know my brothers are on the way, I can’t wait for backup. Stephanie and Jackson might need me right now.
The hinge groans when I push the front door wide, lifting my gun as I scan the dark entry.
Then, slowly, I step inside.
The house smells wrong—like fear and a chemical I can’t place. Finger resting near the trigger, I sweep the living room, then the kitchen, but both are empty and perfectly pristine.
“Jackson!” I call, my voice more urgent now.
Only silence greets me, and my heartbeat roars in my ears when I think about what that means.
I take the stairs two at a time, quickly clearing the bathroom before swinging the door wide to check Jackson’s room.
His blankets are tossed back, revealing an empty bed.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
My gut twists at the sight of a single sock lying abandoned near the door.
He’s a pretty tidy kid—something I observed early on in my time with him—and he wouldn’t just leave his clothes lying on the floor for no reason.
Heart racing now, I step back out into the hall, listening for any sounds as I approach Stephanie’s bedroom.
Like Jackson’s door, hers is ajar—and I know from experience that she likes it closed when she sleeps.
I brace myself, praying I’ll find both huddled safely in some corner, maybe freaked out but safe.
But when I push the door open with my shoulder, making a quick sweep of the room as I enter, my heart stops in its tracks.
Her bedroom is the worst.
The blankets are twisted, like there was a struggle.
And the air still feels… disturbed.
