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I froze.

Then I jumped up and grabbed them, dragging them down with a pile of dust following in their path. I stared at the keys in my hands and just…laughed. The feeling of happiness washed over me like sunshine on a cloudy day.

“Stop!” Jackson screeched, and I rushed to my side of the bed, lifted the mattress, and placed Dad’s polaroid and the keys underneath, hiding them against the wooden slat as I dropped it back down.

I slipped back into the hallway, forcing my breathing to steady as I drifted into the lounge room like nothing had changed. I lowered myself onto the couch, drawing my legs up and fixing my gaze on the screen. My body was shaking, a tremble in my bones I couldn’t stop. So I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped myself up in it so Wayne thought it was from the cold, then I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip to contain the sob that was lodged in my throat. I curled my fingers into the wool, breathing in through pursed lips to calm my heart down.

“Breathe in. Then hold it. That’s it. Now breathe out. Good girl.” I clenched my eyes shut as Dad’s voice penetrated my mind. What would he think if he saw me now? Would it kill him as much as it killed me, seeing his defiance frozen in that polaroid? I jumped as the basement door slammed open and shut before Wayne's heavy footsteps pounded down the hall. “He’s not gonna last very much longer with that fucking attitude,” he snarled, pointing to the end of the hall. “I tell you what, darl. I’m getting too fucking old for this shit,” he said as he slammed the bathroom door shut.

I didn't even hesitate.

I wretched the blanket off and moved quickly. As the shower roared behind the bathroom door, I rushed past it, feet light on the floorboard as I reached out and turned the handle on the basement door and pulled it open so fast, it didn’t creak. I rushed down the steps two at a time, not even thinking about the sound my chain was making. I froze on the second to the last step, my foot hovering in the air, my breath catching so hard, it hurt.

Jackson was kneeling on the ground, held upright by chains that bit into his arms, pulling them tight above him. His body was slumped forward slightly, a trail of blood dripping from his mouth and pooling beneath him. “No.” The word broke in my throat as I dropped to my knees in front of him and cupped his cheek. “No,” I cried, my thumb brushing carefully under his eye, wiping away blood I couldn’t bear to see.

“Evie?” he rasped, his lip split at the seam.

“Look at you…” I choked, anger and grief tangled together as I tried to steady my hands. “What did he do to you?”

Jackson let out a shaky breath that turned into something like a broken laugh. “Did you get them?” he asked.

“I got them,” I confirmed.

“You got the keys?” His voice cracked on the last word. I nodded as his eyes filled straight away, tears cutting clean paths through the blood and swelling. “Holy fuck, Evie…” he breathed, his body shaking beneath my hands. “We're getting out of here?”

I nodded as his breath hitched like it hurt to hold it in. I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his carefully, ignoring everything except the fact that he was here. Still here. Still breathing. His heart was still beating in his chest.

“Tomorrow morning,” I whispered, my voice barely steady as I leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. “When he goes into town…that’s when we’ll do it.” My stomach twisted immediately after I said them, like my body had just caught up to the decision my mouth had already made. Everything and anything can go wrong in a matter of hours. Either we escaped with our lives, or Wayne caught on sooner rather than later and tortured us to death. Either way, I'd rather die with Jackson than live without him.

His fingers twitched weakly where they were bound, like he wanted to reach for me but couldn’t.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed quietly.

“Tomorrow,” I promised.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

PETER

January 17th, 1993

Empty takeout boxes crowded the edge of the desk. Evidence photos from the search warrant were spread across the surface. The television played reruns on mute as the clock struck 1 p.m. “Is Wayne Gatz’s morbid fascination with artistic pieces involving death enough to suggest he’s The Skinner?” Emily said as she scraped her plastic spoon along the bottom of the bowl.

Tiffany leaned forward, dragging one of the photos closer with two fingers. “It puts him at the top of the list,” she said. “I mean, look at this.” She tapped the image. “Who paints a silhouette in pig’s blood and calls it art? Even if he wasn’t The Skinner, he should be locked up just for that.”

Sebastian gave a short, humourless laugh. “And don’t forget the curtains.” I harrumphed, shaking my head at him.

“Still,” Emily said, “he’s claiming it’s all from pigs. Which brings me back to my original question: do pigs even have belly buttons?” she said as she looked down at an image of the strange flower piece Wayne had in the kitchen.

“They do, actually. Pigs are placental mammals, so they usually have a flat scar from where they were connected to their mothers from the umbilical cord. However, it looks nothing like a human’s,” Tiffany muttered.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. Though it felt monumental, this still wasn't enough evidence to convict Wayne. It was nothing to suggest he was a serial killer, but a man with peculiar tastes. The results from the DNA extracted from the teeth found in Wayne’s kitchen were due back any day now, while the negligee failed to produce any.

“This still isn’t enough,” I said.

Emily slid another photo toward me. “What about this door?”

“What door?” I questioned, looking at an image of the large dresser Wayne had at the end of the hallway.