Hope was working two double shifts and wouldn’t be home until at least after midnight . . . but midnight was too far away.
His back and stomach were oozing from his handiwork with the fork, and a fever of 102.3 had come on during the night. In the bathroom he removed his shirt and gazed in the mirror at the deep, jagged, angry-looking slices on his stomach. The discharge leaking from them was slightly yellow. Most likely infection. He turned and studied his back. It was a similar canvas of angry, red slashes.
But he still itched.
He wiped his brow and replayed the words Hope had used to describe him on the telephone to her friend. And to think he’d spared several weeks of her life when he could’ve killed her that very first night.
It had been a huge mistake.
Rage bubbled over inside of him as he remembered how she had stabbed him in the back. But apparently she wasn’t the only backstabber.
Killing the young girl would be terribly sloppy, but at this point he didn’t care. It would be like killing two birds with one stone.
He’d finally get his release.
And it would also be payback.
He twisted the knob on the back door and it opened with ease.
He stepped in and closed it gently behind him. In the distance, he could hear the soft thrums of music. Otherwise, the house was still. He knew the teenager was the only person home . . . and that she would be home alone for hours today.
He wiped at his brow with the back of his hand, then humming softly, he tightened his grip on the knife. He moved slowly through the room, then through the living room, a fine sheen of sweat chilling the back of his neck.
He entered the back hallway and made his way to her bedroom. Peering in, he saw that the room was empty.
He had once liked the girl. At first, she seemed very nice. But he’d now known her long enough to know that she also had a very nasty side.
She liked to hurt people, so she would get hurt, too.
He heard movement in the hallway. Adrenaline poured through him as he lowered his knife to thigh level and casually turned.
The girl appeared in the doorway, holding a mound of wadded-up clothes; her hair was wet as though she’d just showered. Seeing him, she froze and frowned. “What—? Wh-why are you in my room?” she slurred.
He just smiled.
She scrunched up her nose. “And why are you looking at me like that? You’re like seriously . . . seriously creeping me out.”
He kept smiling. The slurring, her dilated pupils—she was high.
Perfect.
She stepped backward. “Um, seriously, you’re freaking me out, okay? Stop it.”
He let his eyes trail down to the knife. Her eyes followed and her jaw dropped. She hurled her dirty clothes at him and shot down the hallway. Knife drawn, he thundered after her.
She scrambled into the bathroom and slammed the door.
He reached the door a second too late.
But that was okay—the bathroom was one of the worst rooms she could’ve chosen. There was no window in the bathroom.
It was a dead end.
He stood, sweating, on the hallway side of the door. “Come on out,” he called.
“You have a knife! Why do you have a fucking knife?” she screamed. “Whaa— . . . Seriously, you just made me pee myself. You’re scaring the shit out of me!”
A drop of sweat landed in his eye. He wiped it away, then threw his body against the door. It didn’t budge.
She screamed.
Blood pounded in his ears.
“Come on out, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”
“Nooo!” she shouted, the word ending in a sob.
He rammed the door again, this time with his hip.
She screamed even louder.
The house went quiet.
“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude, but please,” she begged. “Please stop. I won’t say anything about this. About, you know, you being in my room. Having the knife. Doing . . . this . . . this . . . whatever you’re doing.”
Right. I’m sure I can believe you.
“Please. Just stop,” she begged. “I swear I won’t say a word about this to anyone. Please! I swear! I really do!”
“Fine. I believe you,” he said gently. “I believe you won’t say anything to anyone about this. Look, I must’ve just lost my head. I had some drinks earlier and things got out of control.” He paused and tapped the blade against the door. “I guess I wanted to snoop around your room a little and you caught me off guard. I was embarrassed, that’s all. I’m fine now, though, so you can come out.”
Silence.
He waited for several seconds to give her time to decide. But she said nothing.
As he suspected, she wasn’t going for it. Smart, smart girl.
Clenching his jaw, he threw his body against the door again and a sharp pain burst up his side. Cursing under his breath, he stopped to rub it. But then he noticed something: the door was now ajar, and the girl had stopped screaming.
This made him uneasy.
His eyes narrowing, he pushed the door until it was halfway open. The room was still—and for a few moments, he stared into what appeared to be an empty bathroom. He couldn’t hear as much as her heartbeat, although he knew it must be pounding.
His was.
Rubbing his sweaty palm against his pants, he readied the knife.
Was she cowering behind the door?
Behind the shower curtain?
In the linen closet?
The answer had to be one of the three. There was no place else. He slammed the door open as hard as he could—and it hit the wall behind it.
Okay, she isn’t behind the door . . .
He took a step toward the linen closet. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he sang.
Silence.
Gripping the doorknob, he threw the closet door open only to find shelves filled with toiletries, a toilet brush, rolls of paper towels, and bathroom cleaner. Otherwise, it was empty.
She’s not in the linen closet . . .
He licked his lips and stared at the blue shower curtain. He reached out and it opened with a shriek.