“I guess so,” Stella agreed, not knowing how that helped them at all.
“You need to repeat this entire conversation to Sam.”
MOMMY, DADDY’S DOING the bad thing again.
Glass shattered in the windowpane, bursting inward, and then, as a gloved hand appeared, smashing fast and efficiently, the shards fell like rain onto the floor of the mudroom. He knew exactly where the door lock was and had it open in seconds, uncaring of the blaring alarm. Reaching back outside, onto the porch, Denver dragged his hostage into the mudroom and shoved her so hard she fell onto the floor. Unable to catch herself with her hands tied behind her back, Vienna’s face hit the corner of the built-in cabinet and she gave a little cry.
Denver crouched down beside her, sweeping her hair aside to examine her cheek. He seemed gentle with her, but he didn’t get her up. Instead, he put the edge of his knife to her throat and waited. She was the bait to lure Stella into the mudroom, otherwise there was no way Stella was going to come in. He’d already texted Stella, and sure enough, she opened the door very slowly, looking frightened, putting her head in to observe first. He didn’t say anything, just touched the razor-sharp blade to Vienna’s throat and let a line of ruby-red drops of blood appear. Stella stepped inside just as he’d instructed, despite Vienna’s cries of warning.
“Denver, what are you doing? Honey, you have to stop.” Stella put one hand out to plead with him.
Denver didn’t look at her face. He didn’t wait. He was on her in seconds, sweeping her legs out from under her, taking her down beside Vienna, his knife already stabbing. Over and over, twisting and raking. Twenty, thirty times. Not once did he look at her face or the trails of blood. The pools. He blocked the sound of her screams. He didn’t feel the familiar elation or the rush of euphoria. He just kept stabbing on automatic.
One minute. Two. Three was all he had. Then he was up. He lifted Vienna’s head up by her hair and slashed across her throat with the knife, cutting deep, dropping her casually as he went on out, leaving the mudroom walls splattered with red and the floor pooled with it. The lens of the camera closed abruptly, everything going to black.
Four nightmares later, it was very clear to Stella that Denver was hunting her, not Sam.
STELLA LEANED BACK against Sam’s chest, looking out over the lake, watching the sun come up. They stood together on the private pier, the various shades of gold and crimson pouring across the surface of the water. There was little wind to ruffle the water. It appeared like glass, with the various shades of colors sparkling like gemstones. No matter what time of year, the view of the lake never failed to move her.
Sam’s arms felt like her own place of safety, yet he hadn’t been there when Denver had managed to get into the mudroom. They might know what Denver planned and how he planned to do it, thanks to her nightmares, but they were no closer to finding him. The sheriff’s office had put out a missing persons report on him, stating there was concern for his mental health and not to approach but to call the sheriff’s office if he was spotted. No one had seen him.
Sam had gone to every one of Denver’s favorite hunting and fishing camps, every cave he had talked about, but he hadn’t found tracks. Denver was too familiar with the forest, the private properties where most owners only came up at certain times of the year. He could be anywhere.
There was such beauty and a sense of calm and peace just looking out over the lake, watching the sun rise. Standing with Sam’s arms around her allowed Stella to breathe when she felt as if she’d been unable to draw in air for hours.
Sam nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “You feeling better, sweetheart?”
She’d cried for hours— or it had seemed as if she had. Until there were no tears left. Her eyes and face felt swollen, but the cool morning air was helping to make her feel refreshed again. Sam had made the suggestion that they walk out onto the private pier and watch the sun come up. He hadn’t flinched away from her red, splotchy face. He’d held her hand and helped her over the rocks as they made their way to the private dock and out to the end of it.
She’d sketched every detail of the nightmare, journaled it and then told him everything she could think of, all the while sobbing for their lost friend who wanted to kill her and Vienna. Sam was Sam, and he just let her grieve. Then he’d held her while he studied the sketches, read her journal and listened to her account, asking her a question every now and then in between handing her tissues. After, he told her to get dressed in warm clothes, that they’d watch the sun come up over the lake and drink coffee. She wasn’t about to turn that offer down.