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“You don’t get to hurt people, my people,” I tell him, kicking him in the side. “And you don’t get to take what isn’t yours.”

He makes one final, desperate lunge—not at me, but past me, toward the edge of the drop-off. Probably seeking safety. For a moment, he teeters on the brink, arms windmilling as he tries to regain his balance. Then he’s gone, his scream cutting off with a wet, final sound as he hits the rocks below.

Silence falls, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing and the distant rush of the river. I stand there, knife still clutched in my hand, blood—his and mine—drying on my skin, and wait for... something. Remorse, maybe. Guilt. Horror at what I’ve done.

It doesn’t come.

What comes instead is a strange, hollow calm. He would have raped me. He would have killed me. He would have done worse, if I’d given him the chance. And now he’s gone, and we’re safe.

I sink to my knees, suddenly exhausted, every muscle in my body aching. My side throbs where the knife caught me, my arm burns, and there’s a dozen other cuts and bruises I can’t even begin to catalog. But I’m alive. I’m alive, and the flashlight weirdo isn’t.

After a moment to catch my breath, I push myself to my feet and make my way carefully down the slope to where the man’s body lies sprawled on the rocks at the river’s edge. He’s not moving, a crimson pool spreading beneath his head, his eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. I check for a pulse anyway, pressing my fingers to his neck, feeling nothing but cold skin.

Dead. Definitely dead.

Something glints in the moonlight—the small camera, broken, fallen from his neck during our struggle. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It’s professional grade, expensive—the type professional photographers use. I press the power button, and the cracked screen lights up, showing the last image captured: me, running through the trees, face contorted with fear.

I scroll back through the photos, my stomach turning as image after image fills the screen. Women. Dozens of them, all in various states of terror, some with blood visible, some with that same hollow, dead look in their eyes. The dates go back years.

“Look at you, motherfucker,” I say to the corpse, holding the camera so the screen is visible next to his lifeless face. “Spent your life tormenting women only to die by the hand of one. How’s that for poetic justice?” I throw my head back slowly and sigh. “No one messes with me. No one hurts Andy again.”

I throw the camera as hard as I can on the ground, watching parts of it crack. I don’t know if the police will find this camera, so I crouch down and open it to remove the SD card from it and tuck it in my jeans. Hopefully, it can be used to solve various crimes. I keep the knife, wiping the blade clean in the river before tucking it into the waistband of my jeans. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s better than nothing.

In the distance, sounds of a struggle ensue—grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, the occasional cry of pain. Andrew. He’s still fighting, still alive. The knowledge sends a surge of energy through my exhausted body, overriding the pain from my wounds.

I move as quickly as my battered body will allow, trying to cross the river. The sounds of fighting grow louder as I approach, guiding me through the darkness. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from fear this time but from determination. I may not have been able to prevent Andrew from being bullied in high school, but I can help him now. I can show him he’s not alone. Never was.

I break into a run, the knife clutched tightly in my hand, ready to do whatever it takes to save the man I’ve wanted for decades.

Chapter 10

Andrew

Just you and me, freak show

My lungs burn like I’ve swallowed fire, every breath a fucking knife to my chest as I dodge another swing of the bat. The masked psycho hasn’t made a sound this entire time—not one grunt, not one heave of exertion from my punches—and that silence terrifies me more than any threat could. Blood from my split lip runs down my chin, the metallic taste flooding my mouth as I spit onto the forest floor. My jaw and nose still hurt from Vivian’s jabs when I kidnapped her but that’s the least of my problems. I’ve been fighting for my life for what seems like hours, and my muscles scream with fatigue, but all I can think is: Vivian is safe. She got away. That’s all that matters.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I taunt, voice hoarse and strained. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes. “Your swing’s as weak as your fashion sense. What are you, a rejected Tron character?”

In hindsight, I may have looked weird wearing that mask, but that’s a problem for past Andrew.

The masked psycho tilts his head, those eerie blue crosses where his eyes should be catching the moonlight. Still silent. Still fucking unnerving. My attempt at mental warfare slides off him like water.

I feint left, then dive right, narrowly avoiding another swing that would’ve caved in my skull. The air whistles as the bat passes inches from my ear. I’m running on fumes now, my movements getting slower, clumsier. The back of my shirt hangs in tatters, shredded from when he dragged me across jagged rocks earlier. My knuckles are raw, bloodied from connecting with his mask over and over without making a dent.

“What’s your fucking problem?” I spit, circling him cautiously. “Got a thing for rockstars? Or just musicians in general? I can introduce you to our drummer if you’re into loud, obnoxious men. You’d make a cute couple.”

The masked psycho lunges forward with unexpected speed. I try to sidestep, but my exhausted legs betray me. His hand clamps around my throat, fingers digging into my windpipe with crushing force. Panic explodes in my chest as my airway closes. I claw at his hand, but it’s like trying to bend steel.

He lifts me off the ground—actually fucking lifts me, all six-foot-two and eighty-something kilos of me—and then drives me down. My back and head slam into the dirt with a force that sends white-hot pain shooting through my entire body. A scream tears from my throat, more animalistic than human.

Something cracks inside me—a rib, maybe two. Breathing becomes pure agony. I roll onto my side, trying to protect my core, but he’s already grabbing my ankle, dragging me through the underbrush like a hunter with a fresh kill.

Fuck, this guy has a thing for dragging people through the woods.

Rocks tear at my skin, roots and branches whip against my face. I try to grab onto something, anything, to stop this nightmare ride, but my fingers find only loose dirt and leaves. Every bump sends fresh waves of pain through my possibly broken ribs.

“Fuck you,” I gasp, words barely audible. “You’re dead, you hear me? Fucking dead.”