She was raped?
That explained a lot: the scar on her cheek, the knives. Maybe it also explained why he’d been drawn to her. She was wounded, just like him.
“Just knowing someone is out there really freaks me the hell out. I’m coming home.”
The springs creaked above him as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Relax? You have to be kidding me. I mean, that has to be the most idiotic, irritating thing anyone can say to someone who is freaking out. Two people are dead!”
A pause.
“No, I know exactly what you meant. You want me to relax.”
He drew shallow breaths from his place beneath the bed, waiting impatiently for her to get off the phone and draw a bath. He had work to do, and very little time.
He had to take care of Hope; then he had to figure out what to do next. He knew his mother well enough to know she wasn’t going to change her mind. When she made a decision, she always stuck with it unless she was given good reason not to. And in his case, there wasn’t a good reason.
It had been Hannah’s murder that had pushed her over the edge. The only murder she could possibly connect him to. But he’d done it for Allie, couldn’t she see? Hannah had turned on her.
He let his mind drift to his time with Hannah. With every thrust of the knife, he had felt the rage drain away. With every strike he felt the fever leave him, the fog in his head lift. Now he felt somewhat normal again.
“I’m not being argumentative!” Hope cried above him. “My God! Can you maybe just listen to me for a change and not talk? That might be helpful.”
He closed his eyes and tried to push all thoughts of anything but the present aside. To focus on the moment. The bed springs groaned as Hope stood and began pacing again.
He opened his eyes and watched her bare feet as they crossed the carpeted floor. But then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something that made gooseflesh rise on his arms. It was a roach and it was standing just a foot away from his hand, its antenna trembling.
“I attract weirdos, Greg. That’s what I do,” Hope was saying. “And I saw someone really strange twice in front of the grocery store and he looked at me like . . . like, I don’t know, I can’t explain it. But it was so weird.”
The insect took a few steps toward him and his world stopped. A fine layer of sweat rose to the surface of his skin and Hope’s voice suddenly sounded miles away.
“And to top it off, I walk in after Aunt Ester’s funeral and the house seems different somehow. The air feels strange. It even smells different. And I could swear that someone tidied up while I was gone.”
Pause.
“Yes, of course I know how crazy that sounds. But you’re not supposed to talk, remember? Thank you.”
The roach took another step forward. Then, as though it sensed his fear, it moved forward more boldly. “Jesus, get away from me!” he hissed between clenched teeth, vomit rising in his throat.
Hope was still jabbering in her faraway voice. “Not to mention that someone broke in here and cleaned my kitchen a couple of months ago. Remember? So, please. Tell me again that I should relax because, you know, it’s really a big fucking help!”
Nausea washed over him in waves. Get off the fucking phone and run a fucking bath! he screamed deep inside his head, trying to will Hope to do what he needed her to do.
When the insect started forward again, he couldn’t help it—he swatted at it and his back hit the box springs.
The roach changed course, scuttling up the wall next to him. Relieved, he took a deep breath, but then he realized that the room had gone silent.
Hope was no longer talking to her friend.
He could see her feet. They were facing him. And they were very still.
Oh shit.
The woman slowly bent to peer beneath the bed. He lay as still as possible, hoping that somehow she wouldn’t see him. That someone would ring the doorbell . . . that maybe a teakettle would go off. Something, anything, to distract her from searching beneath the bed. This wasn’t the way he wanted to reveal himself. He wanted to do it when she was in the bath. He had planned it all out on the drive.
Tilting her head, she squinted, trying to make out what lay past the gauzy bed skirt. She stared, concentration etched across her forehead.
“Hope? What’s going on?” the voice on the other side of the phone line asked.
Sweat carved a jagged path along his spine. He lay like a statue, watching her, readying his muscles to move swiftly.
She straightened a little and took a few tentative steps closer. Reaching out, she used the blade of her knife to lift the bed skirt, then she bent down again.
Her eyes met his and bulged with horror. She let out a squeal of terror. They both scrambled at the same time. Him from under the bed. Her, out of her bedroom and down the stairs.
Blood thudded in his head as he flew down the stairs after her. Once he reached the bottom, his eyes jerked left to right to see which way she’d gone. But everything had gone quiet and Hope was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly there was an intense pressure in his back, followed by an incredible pain. Then a forceful pull and sucking sound.
He screamed and grabbed his back. Whirling around, he found himself face-to-face with her. Her features were clouded with fury and she was holding one of her knives above her head, the blade covered in blood.
His blood.
Woozy, he blinked at her and his own knife dropped from his hand. He stared at her, a red-hot pain blooming in his back. So this is what it feels like, he thought, realizing the physical wound was nothing compared to the emotional ones he’d endured.
Her eyes flashing, she brought the knife down again, hard. He barely managed to catch her wrist before the blade sliced into the tender flesh of his chest.