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And no one is coming to close it.
I pull on the handle and peer out into the hall. Muffled voices drift down from the right, growing quieter as they flit away. Staying close to the wall, I trail after the voices. I’ve walked these halls more than once, though always with an escort, but I memorized what I was able. When I pass Winnie’s room, things become unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar is scary.
Unfamiliar is terrifying.
But the voices pull at me, drawing me closer instead of driving me in on myself.
This is insane—I should be snooping, learning more of the layout of the house and looking for a way out while everyone is occupied. What is wrong with me?
Ahead, the hall opens into a grand entryway with ornate rugs, dark wood, soft lighting, and it’s full of people. I press myself into the corner just out of sight and wait. One breath, then another, but no one’s looking in my direction.
No one pays any attention to me, if they even know I’m here.
“We got a body leaking in the house next door and you’re telling me you don’t know anything? Didn’t hear anything?” The gruff voice is familiar. Ice crawls up my spine and wraps its ugly hands around my throat, choking me.
“Don’t know what to tell you, Des. We’re far enough away out here, we don’t hear much.” Teague’s voice changes, taking on a lighter tone, but the levity is forced. Strained. “Try to be good neighbors… Mind our own business. Know what I mean?”
“Good neighbors don’t hear gunshots? Don’t report that to the authorities?”
“Gunshots? Is that what that noise was?” The other man scoffs, but Teague continues, “And tone it down, you’re a fucking beat cop, bought, paid for, and owned.”
“You know what a gunshot sounds like, Tig. Don’t bullshit me. Lying to an officer of the law isn’t a wise choice.”
The implied threat is unmistakable.
“Officer of the law,” Teague mumbles low. “I remember when you were still shitting your pants at every damn holiday, so don’t with me.”
Teague knows him.
The icy band around my neck tightens, and blood whooshes through my ears.
I know him.
I push myself further into the corner, making myself as small as I possibly can.
That voice.
I want to run, put as much space between me and its owner as I can, but my legs won’t move. They can’t.
That… that man.
My back slides down the wall, slowly—torturously slow—until my backside hits the floor.
I suck in a deep breath and chance a look at him.
His face. The way his eyes would light up and darken ominously, all at the same time.
I curl into myself and tuck my face against my bent knees.
The way he’d grin when he pressed his knife against my skin.
His excitement when the first slice would well up with bright red dots that multiplied into a fine line before overflowing.
The way he’d run his finger through my blood, painting it along my thighs, my stomach, my breasts.
The thrill he got watching my fear take control.
