Page 49

“Fine.”

I look at the officer by the door. “Pell said a car would follow. Follow her. All the way down. Do not wait in my driveway.”

He looks at Lena, then at me, and I can tell that he does not like leaving me in the house without a police presence. He likes leaving a scared woman on the mountain even less. He nods once and goes to the car.

“Don’t die in that house,” Lena says.

“Go,” I tell her.

Two sets of lights turn on the bend before the trees take them. Then, all that’s left is me, the house, and the dark.

I shut the door. I pick up the drink I never touched and stand in the hall with it still in my hand and listen.

Nothing.

I go back to the glass and for a while there is only the mountain until something moves in the trees to the side and catches my attention. I watch as it stands there, motionless and quiet. It does not come straight at the house. It just stands there, in the dark and waits.

The figure finally steps out from the trees. Hood. Grey. Then the white face. It stands in the open long enough for me to know it’s him. Or her because at this point, it could be fucking anyone. It’s the same coverall. Same gloves. And that same cut where a mouth should be.

And then it starts walking, moving toward the house. Slow. Very slow. It walks across the wet ground and past the place in the bushes where the photo came from, making sure it keeps to the side of the house the entire time, where I did not put enough light. I watch it the whole way. One step. Then another. Then the white face turns toward the glass like it knows I am standing here.

It reaches my window. It does not knock. It puts a gloved hand on the frame and stands there, close enough now that I can see the mesh where the eyes should be. It tilts its head. It waits, like it wants me to open the door myself.

I put my glass down. I do not call Pell. I do not call Lena. I just go to the side door because if I wait, they will come through the window, and I want to move first.

I open it, and the cold air slams against my face. The ground is wet and the figure is already leaving the glass and coming along the wall toward me. It stops in the doorway. Not in. Not out.

“I saw you in the car,” I say. “I lost you in the bay. You do not get this house.”

They do not answer at first.

A tap. Soft. On the door.

Then that close voice. The same one I have been hearing since Tuesday when this nightmare started.

“Don’t scream. Kiss me.”

“Take it off,” I order.

They step in.

Same grey. Same gloves. Same white. They are close enough now that I can see every fine detail of the mask. I reach for it, the way I reached for the hood in the bay, only this time I get it and the white face comes off in my hand.

Black hair. Wet. And that mouth that used to count for me in the gym. The man half my floor pretended not to look at.

Cruz.

I say it because there is nothing else to say.

“Cruz.”

14

Cruz Maddox

Friday, October 31st. The house.

The mask is in his hand, and I let him take it because I wanted him to take it. I have been that white face since Tuesday and I am done hiding.