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The deputy steps out into the roaring storm, shoving a handcuffed Ryder out onto the rain-slicked porch.

Ryder walks with a slow, predatory grace, completely unbothered by the freezing downpour beating against his chest, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and that skin-tight grey shirt.

My eyes instinctively dart to the spot on the porch where Ryder had slaughtered the masked man just twenty minutes ago.

The body is gone, thrown over the cliff into the churning river below, and the relentless, torrential downpour has completely washed the wood clean. The thick pools of crimson, the spilled intestines, the mud—all of it has been erased by the storm. There isn’t a single trace of foul play left on the porch.

I let out a slow, trembling breath, a small weight lifting off my chest. At least, there’s no physical evidence tying anyone to a murder right here.

Then I look down at my own clothes.

My sweater, my jeans, and the skin of my neck are still streaked with dark, dried blood.

A fresh wave of anxiety spikes in my chest, but I force myself to rationalize it.

It’s Halloween night. Blackwood is full of people dressed in grotesque costumes, painted in fake gore and theatrical blood. If anyone sees me on the road, I can easily explain it away as a costume gone wrong.

The deputy pushes Ryder down the wooden steps, leading him toward the parked cruiser at the edge of the clearing.

I freeze in the shadows, my hand clutching the wet corner of the cabin.

A terrible, agonizing conflict tears through my chest.

I should run. I should turn toward the dark tree line, sprint to my car, and never look back.

Ryder is a monster, a murderer, a stalker who has been hunting me from the shadows for fifteen years, by his own admission.

And yet... I can’t move my feet.

Hating myself with every fiber of my being, I stand there, watching the police officer force Ryder toward the car.

A small, persistent voice whispers in the back of my mind, screaming at me not to leave him like this.

It’s the exact same voice I’ve heard in my head every single night for fifteen years—the voice that has haunted me ever since I left Noah on that dark, rain-soaked stretch of highway.

Noah gave me a gift that night.

His death forced me to wake up, to accept the rotten, selfish parts of myself, and to realize that I needed to change if I wanted to grow.

I owe my self-awareness to him. I owe my survival to his memory. And standing here in the dark, watching Noah’s best friend being hauled away in chains... there’s an unshakeable, dark debt pulling at my soul.

I can’t change what happened to Noah. But I can save Ryder.

My eyes dart frantically around the muddy ground near the cabin wall, searching for anything I can use as a weapon.

A few feet away, leaning against a freshly chopped pile of firewood, sits a heavy, steel-splitting axe.

I stare at the sharp, rusted blade, my stomach turning.

No.

I shake my head quickly, backing away from it.

I’m not Ryder. If I take an axe to a police officer, the full weight of the law will hunt me down until the day I die. That would bring too much heat, too much chaos, and I refuse to cross that final, bloody line.

My gaze sweeps over the woodpile, locking onto a thick, heavy log of dry oak. It’s about two feet long, with the exact heft and grip of a baseball bat.

I drop to my knees, wrapping both hands around the rough bark of the log.