Page 35 of Dead Pretty

It was a gift from Tobias. One of his many sick gifts.

It’s starting again.

No. No, it’s not. This is a rat.

Not a bird or a cat.

A rat.

Calm down.

But I can’t seem to.

My pulse is beating wildly.

Rational thoughts only, Audrey.

There are a hundred reasons as to why a dead rat is in my apartment. It could have easily gotten inside.

Rats can do that. They can go anywhere.

Only it’s not a small rat. In terms of rat size, it’s definitely at the larger end of the scale.

It could have gotten in under the front door. They do that.

Not that I have a big gap under my door.

Maybe a window? It could have crawled in through a window.

Yeah, it shimmied up the drainpipe to the second floor and crawled in through my locked window.

Fear sprints down my spine, spinning me into action. My pulse is beating wildly in my ears.

I whirl around. My cell flies out of my hand.

Shit!

I hear my phone clatter to the floor, but I don’t have time to stop and look for it.

I have to get out of here.

I rush through my apartment, heading for the only exit I have—the front door.

There’s no outline of light around the door, meaning the lights are out in the hall too.

Breaths are panting out of me. Reaching the door in no time, I grab the handle and yank it open.

And a dark figure is standing there.

I don’t scream.

Instead, I yell, “Fire!” at the top of my lungs. Because that always brings people running.

Self-defense class taught me that screaming or calling for help will bring no one. But yell fire—actual danger—and people will come running straight toward it.

Then, I clench my fist and punch upward as hard as I can, upper-cutting, hoping to connect with some part of the person’s body. But it’s dark, and I can’t see a goddamn thing.

I hit bone—chin, I think—and pain explodes in my hand.