TWENTY-THREE
CAMRYN
“Dom?”I whisper-hiss as I peer into the dark hallway.
Fear has me in a chokehold, my neck damp with sweat.
When there’s no response, my voice breaks as I call out, “Dominic?”
Where is he? Why is the house so quiet?
I hesitantly exit the living room and skirt the length of the wall, careful to avoid the framed photographs.
Glancing back at the front door, I debate making a run for it, but I dismiss that thought just as fast. I can’t leave Dominic behind.
Although…
I worry my bruised lip, my fingers trailing over the flaking wallpaper as I continue down the hallway.
Maybe I should escape? I could phone the police. What if Dominic is dead by the time they get here? What if they’re too late? He could already be dead.
“Dominic?” I whisper shakily, straining to listen for a response.
Nothing.
Glass crunches underfoot, and I peer down at the broken frames, shards of glass slipping to the floor as I crouch, picking up the grainy photograph of a young man framed by fir trees.
His wide smile and high cheekbones give way to dark hair hidden beneath a woolen cap. An axe rests on his shirt-clad shoulder.
I can’t stop staring at it or his eyes.
“I thought I told you not to wander into the woods.”
The photograph trembles in my hand as I exhale shakily. My mouth is dry.
It’s him.
I know it is. The similarities are too striking.
I turn around and scan the other photographs. There he is, barefoot, slouched on a swing seat on the porch.
My eyes drift to the next framed picture, a cold shiver accompanying the bead of sweat sliding down my spine. I step closer to the image of him on a tall ladder propped against the side of the house, a hammer in his hand.
He used to live here. This was his home.
But that means?—
The floorboards creak ominously behind me, my breath catching in my throat. I know it’s Wilfred even before his southern drawl sends a spike of fear through me.
“Such a pretty little darlin’.” He approaches me, his heavy steps drawing closer.
I exhale a shuddering breath, staring at the wall in front of me.
What do I do? I could run for the door, but Wilfred has a gun. He’ll shoot me before I can escape.
Panic threatens to immobilize me when his foul smell of stale cigarettes and manure assaults me from behind. I dig my fingers into my palms and then stiffen as he moves my hair away from my shoulder with the shotgun, ensuring I see it in my periphery.
“It’s been too long since I touched such young flesh.”
