Quickly turning from the mirror, she tried to recount everything that had happened since returning to Louisiana: the sheriff’s deputy ordering her from her brother’s room in the middle of the night and shuttling her to the hospital, the sheriff questioning her about her brother and the murders, then arriving at the old woman’s house.
She could only remember snippets of all the events. Other than that, it was all one big blur.
Back in the bedroom, Allie went to the bedside table. Miss Bitty had prepared a large mug of soup and left it there before leaving her alone to settle in. A small plate of dark crackers and a few pills sat next to it. Allie quickly downed the food. It was the first time she had eaten anything decent for as long as she could remember. Hell, it was the first time she’d eaten anything for as long as she could remember.
Returning the empty dishes to the bedside table, Allie decided to take the pills, hoping they’d help with the pain. After downing them, her eyes found the window. She felt certain she knew where she was and it wasn’t very far from her childhood house. Maybe only a mile, give or take, if she cut through the center of the woods.
Once she had a chance to rest and get her head straight, that’s exactly where she’d go. They couldn’t keep her here against her will, no matter how old she was. Once she felt well again, she’d fight them tooth and nail and they’d want to forget all about her. They would be sorry they’d even known her name.
Kicking off her flip-flops and shrugging off her shorts, she peeled the comforter and top sheet back and crawled in. The bedding smelled sweet and fresh, like the magnolias that used to bloom outside her childhood house. The scent relaxed her. She’d never experienced anything so nice. So clean.
Don’t you dare get used to this, she told herself.
Don’t you freakin’ dare.
Then she closed her eyes and plunged into a deep, dark sleep.
CHAPTER 9
HE HAD SPENT most of the afternoon in the young blonde’s house, rummaging through her things. Lying on her bed. Trying to only think about her and not the beautiful teenage girl who had just arrived in town.
As he waited, he even did her dishes.
But the dishes hadn’t been planned.
By 3:00 p.m., he’d grown so disgusted he decided to do the dishes for her. It had begun as just simply washing one dish. Drying it. Putting it away. Then he stared at the others—all crusted with filth—and decided to do just one more.
When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he dropped the stopper into the drain, filled one side of the sink with soapy water, and scraped and cleaned the rest. Then, when they were dry, he put them away in their respective cabinets and tucked the clean silverware into a drawer.
He hoped he would get a glimpse of her face when she noticed his work. What will run through her mind? he wondered.
He’d learned more about her during the visit. Her name was Hope Smith. She was twenty-four years old and worked as a waitress at a local diner. She had been born and raised in Southern California, and was an only child, newly single, and taking college classes online. The house was her great-aunt Ester’s. Apparently Aunt Ester had just been placed in an old folks’ home outside of town due to Alzheimer’s.
Aunt Ester’s Cape Cod was less than a decade old and on an acre of land. It was pretty sturdy for newer construction but sickeningly easy to get into.
If only people knew how easy it was to enter their homes they would surely have difficulty sleeping at night. If people knew half the things going on around them, they’d be petrified.
Like most houses, there weren’t many good places to hide. He’d found a closet with a water heater in the kitchen that was decent. The door had vented slats and an acceptable vantage point of her cluttered breakfast nook. Then there was her bedroom closet, which had the same vented slats, but the vantage point was practically useless unless Hope was standing directly in front of her bureau.
His favorite, though, was the four-poster bed that rested on plastic lifts. That had been a wonderful find. It was spacious enough that a baby water buffalo could probably lay beneath it, and there was a filmy skirt that skimmed the floor, which helped to further veil his presence.
His favorite hiding spot had always been beneath the womens’ beds.
Mostly, though, he’d been limited to hiding just around a corner from where she was. Shadowing her . . . moving along with her as she moved through rooms. He had to be light on his feet, which was sometimes difficult, but doable. After all, he’d had years of practice. It excited him to know he could be discovered at any time. The thought of it made gooseflesh rise on his arms.
Whenever possible he liked to delay his gratification by spending time with them before the main event. He watched their movements, discovered their complexities, learned their scent before it was laced with fear. It made what he was about to do to them even more exciting. Usually he spent several hours. Maybe a day or two.
But Hope was proving to be different. With anyone else, he would’ve already made his move. But, unlike the others, just being near her soothed the itch, made him feel better. More alive. The air was electric when she was around.
He wasn’t sure what it was about her, because on the surface she was all wrong. She was nothing like the others. His gut had picked Hope. Not his head.
He would wait to perform his big reveal until she discovered him.
He continued to count down the minutes until she’d be home. Thankfully her patterns the last few days had been like clockwork. Her schedule for the week was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a smiley face.
Most evenings, she brought home a Styrofoam container of food, grabbed some wine and a knife (or two), went upstairs, cleaned up in the bathtub or sink, and then crawled into bed.
She also would leave the dirty Styrofoam container on her bedside table overnight and wouldn’t bother to pick it up well into the next day. He grimaced as he imagined the roaches that it could attract.