Hopefully.
I take off, coming around the side of the house at a dead run. Behind me, the rose trellis shakes and something heavy hits the ground.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I speed up, running past the end of the Bays’ house and straight into the surrounding woods. I keep a good pace as I push farther in. The underbrush isn’t very thick and the ground is soft from the recent rains, muffling the slap of my Chucks. I veer to the right—need to get closer to the road—and duck behind a fallen tree, curling myself into a tight ball. I wait, listening. At first, it’s quiet.
Then come the footsteps.
They’re steady, but farther off, like the person went straight when I went right. I press myself into the dirt, willing my breathing to slow. No good. Fear is mixing with exertion and I can’t get enough air. I cover my mouth with both hands and the movement turns my head just enough to see the wedge of space between the standing trunk and the fallen tree.
There’s someone coming through the afternoon-darkened trees.
It’s a man. He’s moving quickly, head casting from side to side like he’s looking for something he lost.
He’s looking for me. I press closer to the ground even as he draws farther away. I can’t make out his face. He’s tallish . . . with baggy clothes . . . and . . . crap. The shadows make it almost impossible to gauge anything definite.
Who is he?
Not Ian. Not the judge. Who else would want to be in that house besides me?
My skin goes cold. The killer.
No. Why would he come back? I flatten myself into the dirt, waiting. He walks left, then right, then disappears behind a thicket of trees. I fling myself upright and run for it. The road shouldn’t be much farther. If I can get that far, I can reach my car. I’m out of here.
And then the ground gives way.
I pitch forward, sliding, sliding. My shoulder crams into one rock and my head glances off another. Light flashes behind my eyes as the force spins me around. I end up half buried under a mound of dirt.
Get up. Get up. I thrash, spilling more dirt. Somehow I’ve fallen into a ditch and the ground is crumbly from all the rain. I can’t get traction until—finally—my feet hit rock and I push myself up, wiping dirt from my eyes. My fingers come away wet, bloody.
This isn’t a ditch. It’s a giant sinkhole. I’m at least eight feet below the surface, my legs partially buried in the soft, dark dirt. The ground behind me feels firmer and, somehow, the ground above me is intact, curving over me like a roof.
I wiggle. Something pokes me in the side. Shit. I reach around, knowing even before I touch my cell that I’ve crushed it. The screen is deeply cracked and it won’t power on. So much for calling for help. I’ll need to dig myself out, but there’s too much dirt on my legs. I can’t move, and this time, it isn’t footsteps that alert me he’s close. It’s the way the birds go silent.
A shadow casts across the hole. He’s standing above me, looking down, and I go utterly still. I can’t tell if he can see me. My lower body is completely buried. The rest of me?
I press into the dirt wall. Maybe with the overhang, I’m okay. Unless he comes around the other side of the hole; then I know he’ll spot me. I won’t be able to get away.
I wait. He waits. Small clumps of dirt drop from above, and for a single, hysterical second, I think he’s going to fall through the overhang and land on top of me. Then his fingers close around the edge of the hole. They curl into the dirt so I can see the pink tips and I know he’s leaning in.
He’s coming in for a closer look. I bite my tongue, taste mud. More dirt clumps fall and then his fingers pull away. He’s moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.
He’s pacing.
Then he stops. Something cracks and I jerk. There’s a rustling, dragging sound. Ragged shadows arc across the hole’s opening and a large branch lands across my buried legs.
Panic surges through me. What the hell is he doing?
He begins to whistle. Another crack. Another branch.
Why’s he covering up the hole?
Crack. Branch.
Holy shit, he’s going to bury me alive.
I swallow, dirt coating my tongue. Get a grip. He’s not burying you. He’s covering you. He’s hiding the hole. Why? Because I’m in it? Can’t be. He doesn’t realize I’m here.
The whistling—light, tuneless—recedes again and I start working my legs up and down, pushing at the dirt with my sneakers. I can’t let myself get pinned like this. Maybe if I ball up, I’ll have a better chance of getting my feet under me and shoving my way out.
I wiggle harder. My left knee pops loose, punches through the mud. I draw it close and keep working at my right leg. It’s so far under all that dirt. I don’t know how—