I let my forehead rest against his chest until the tremors inside my body soften into something manageable.
After a long minute, I pull away from him.
“I need to move.”
His eyes search mine with slow concern. “Where?”
“I need to clear my head,” I say. “I’m going to the gym.”
He studies me for several seconds before he nods. “Alright, I'll stay here.”
I press a kiss to his shoulder, slide out of the bed, and dress quickly. My feet move silently down the hallway while the house settles into stillness.
The punching bag waits in the corner of the gym. I wrap my hands slowly and step toward it.
The first punch lands with a deep, hollow thud that echoes through the quiet room. I throw another punch and then another. Each impact sends a sharp spike of pain down my injured shoulder, but the burn only fuels the motion. I keep hitting until sweat collects at the base of my neck and my breath grows loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I picture Elliot’s grin, and my fist slams into the bag. I picture his eyes, and my knuckles sting with the force. I picture the chainsaw, and my breath grows ragged.
He feels like an infection that refuses to leave my mind. Sophie, Grant and John live there too. They lodge themselves inside the darkest corners of my thoughts, and they wait for me whenever I close my eyes. Killing them won’t fix this.
I can put a bullet in Elliot’s head. I can carve Sophie open. I can watch Grant bleed out on the floor. It won’t matter.
They will still be here.
In my sleep. In the dark corners of my head. In the split second before I relax.
They don’t just die and disappear. They stick.
And if I am still waking up like this years from now, then in some twisted way, they already won.
I step back from the bag with my chest rising too fast and my hands trembling from adrenaline.
My phone rings with a sharp sound that slices through the room.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and answer without checking the number.
“Hello, Brooke,” a distorted voice says. “Wanna play a game?”
I freeze for a breath and scan the gym, checking each shadow and every corner.
“Cute,” I reply. “Are you Jigsaw or are you Ghostface?”
“Neither.”
“Seth?”
“Nope.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“You shouldn’t be asking who I am,” the voice taunts. “You should be asking where I am.”
My jaw tightens hard enough that I feel it in my ears. I step into the hallway slowly and my nerves climb fast.
“Bad dream?” the voice asks, and the mocking tone crawls under my skin instantly.
I move toward our bedroom with steady steps. If this turns out to be Seth, he is about to piss me off. I stop in the doorway and look in. The blankets on his side are still raised around him. I stay where I stand because nothing about the room feels right. I reach toward the dresser and grab my knife, letting the weight settle into my palm as my heartbeat picks up.
