I try to keep my eyes trained on him while searching for a weapon in my peripheral. There’s nothing. I back up toward the window, hoping I can scream and be heard and seen through it. “Stop backing away from me. I’m not going to hurt you.” He grimaces, but I keep moving.
“What is this?” I ask, trying to keep him distracted from advancing on me. None of this makes any sense.
“It’s not what it looks like.” He sighs, holding his hand up like he’s trying to tame a wild horse.
“What does it look like?” I breathe.
“I can explain.” He moves closer, and I dart to the corner, holding my hands out in front of me. Fear and confusion shoot into me like bullets from a gun. Images flutter to the floor as my back crashes into the wall he’s created. Images of the slain women. He bends to scoop them up, and I use the chance to push him over and dart past him, my heart racing and head swimming. I make it to the front door before tripping over my feet in my haste to escape. I crash forward. A cracking pain explodes over my skull as I collide with the metal latch, slicing my head against the lock and stumbling backwards. My knees give way, sending me fumbling to the floor. My sight fades in and out, and the air around me whooshes. Crap.
He’s there, pulling me to my feet within seconds. My head swims. The color has drained from his face. He looks…worried for me?
“God, Lizzy, I would never hurt you. Please stop trying to run away. You’re bleeding.” He guides me with a gentle pull of my arm over to the couch and deposits me there before walking somewhere behind me. Warm rivulets of blood drip down my face, creating a mess. I calculate the distance and chances of me getting back to the door. “You may need a stitch.” He’s back too soon. My hope for escape flees. He frowns down at me as he places a wet towel again the wound. I flinch from the contact.
“Why do you have a picture of me on your weird wall of death?” My voice shakes. My skull throbs. I’m not sure if I’ll pass out.
He sits down on the coffee table in front of me, taking the towel with him. “I think I should get you to the emergency room.”
I swipe the towel from him and place it back on my head. “Just answer the damn question before I scream the place down,” I warn.
“I’ve been following the killings,” he says, like it’s obvious
“Why?”
“Because they’re replicas of the murders committed by Willis Langford.” My lungs seize. I gasp, but no air filters in. My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. I slap at my chest, my eyes springing wide. Darkness begins clouding in. I’m suffocating. “Breathe, Lizzy. Fuck. Breathe.”
“Who are you?” I wheeze.
“You know who I am. You’ve always known.” No. No. It can’t be. I can’t breathe. I’m dying. My throat is closing up. My hands go there, clawing. He jumps up and slides behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest and bringing my body against his. I can’t even fight him. Everything is crashing down around me. I’m crumbling.
“Feel the movements of my chest,” he urges.
“One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Breathe.” Patting his hand over my heart, he murmurs, “Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.” My body begins to relax, and the oxygen finally inflates my lungs. Tears burn in my eyes. I want to curl up into myself.
“Who are you…?” I break.
“Shhh, just breathe. Relax.” My eyes feel like lead weights are pushing down on them. I fight the urge to give in, but it’s too hard. I’m being pulled under. My eyes close, betraying me.NineteenDamn it. My head is cracking in two. My eyes blink open and take a second to adjust to the artificial light. Memories of being in Clark’s apartment cause me to jolt upright. I immediately regret the action when pain flames across my head.
“Whoa! It’s okay. You’re safe.” Clark walks over to the couch where I’m covered in a blanket. “I read that you’re allowed to sleep now with a concussion, you weren’t out long,” he assures me. Concussion? My fingertips brush against my head, padding the cut. A hiss passes my lips when the movement causes a little oozing.
“You need to tell me everything,” I croak. My throat feels dry, and I’m still a little lightheaded. “You’re here because of Willis?” I ask.
“I’ve been following the activity.” His brown hair looks wild, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.
“The activity?” I scoot up a little.
“The killers,” he clarifies, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
“You mean Willis?”
His eyes drop to the floor. Coiling in my stomach tells me whatever he’s going to say isn’t going to be good. “I don’t believe it to be Willis.”