“Get under the bed and don’t come out.”
“It’s safe. You’re safe now.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Two black boots step into the room. That’s not Charlotte.
No. No. No.
This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Tears spring to my eyes. I grip the knife so tight, my knuckles turn white. I’d dropped the phone when I found the cat. Should I try to grab it and call the police? Will they make it in time?
I’m seven years old again. Fear burrows into my heart, eating away at it.
Fear is an illusion. You must overcome it.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a brief second. When I open them, a man is staring back at me. “Argh!” I cry out, swiping out with the knife.
“Whoa, what the hell you doing, crazy lady?” he shouts, jumping away.
Sliding out from beneath the bed, I hold the knife out toward him in a protective stance. “Stay back,” I warn.
Charlotte appears in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl on her face. “He lives next door, Liz. He has a key, feeds the cats while Lucile—” she emphasizes, “—is away on a business trip.” If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash right now.
“The knife?” the guys asks, hand out, a look of distrust on his face.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, handing him the knife and racing from the room.
When I get back to the kitchen, my eyes flash to the window. The black rose purposely posed there. “Did you put that flower there?” I ask the cat feeder. When he doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. He looks perplexed as he stares at the flower, like he can’t understand what it is. “Well?” I snap.
“No, and I left the window open to get rid of the smell in here.” The window is closed now.
“Maybe try emptying the trash,” Charlotte gags.
“I have. There’s no trash in here.” He looks back at her, then to the flower.
“Who else has a key?” I ask him, moving toward the flower. It’s perfect. Fresh. My finger swipes over the small stain on one of the petals. “There’s blood,” I croak.
“What?” they say in unison, their voices carrying across the space between us.
The heat of his body coming up behind me makes me shudder. “This is creepy. Please, can we leave?” Charlotte’s skin turns rapid white. A startled cry retches from her lips, ringing in my ears. Her shaky hand covers her mouth as she reaches out, pointing to the window. Me and Cat Guy look up at the same time. He balks, but I’m solidified. A silhouette of a man is in our window looking over at us. He’s tall and broad, too tall to be Charlotte’s date. His face is shrouded in darkness, but I feel the pressure of his gaze. “Who is that?” the cat feeder demands. Charlotte is already calling the police, but her words are just noise in my chaotic thoughts. Who the hell is toying with me? Is he Abigail’s killer? Is her murder my fault?
I take off running, pushing past Charlotte and out the door. I pounce down the steps two at a time, ignoring the roaring pain of my ankle. Adrenaline pumps wild in my veins. I almost tumble onto the street, but keep going to our building, taking the stairs up two at a time. I slow and round the final staircase on our floor. The front door is wide open, and all the courage and determination of confronting this son of a bitch drains from my body. Apprehension turns into undiluted fear. I’ve seen what a psychopath is capable of, lived through his darkness. This is just a prank. It can’t be Willis Langford. I refuse to believe that.
“Lizzy,” Charlotte barks up at me from the below, the cat feeder behind her. “You’re crazy! I can’t believe you just run over here toward the mysterious man in our apartment!” she pants, her chest heaving from the exertion as she climbs the last couple stairs.
“Your guy friend is in there,” I remind her.
“So is some psycho,” she grinds out, tilting her head around the railing to look into our apartment.
“Is your light switch in the same place as mine?” Cat Guy asks.
“Back wall next to the door,” I tell him with a nod.
“Wait downstairs. If anything happens, go outside and wait for the police,” he enforces with punctuated hand movements.
“Shouldn’t we just all wait for the police together downstairs?” Charlotte begs in a whiny tone, tugging on my shirt. Ignoring her, Cat Guy goes toward the door. Slowly looking inside, he reaches around to flick on the light we didn’t turn off. Our apartment illuminates, the window coming into view. There’s no one there, but something small and white is stuck to the pane of glass. Cat Guy ventures farther inside, his stance defensive and slow. He picks up a wine bottle Charlotte must have left on the table and holds it like a weapon. If only he kept hold of the damn knife. He disappears from sight, and we wait, holding our breaths. Charlotte still hasn’t come all the way up the stairs.