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So still.
Too still.
15
Lincoln’s words die like the volume has been turned off on the entire world.
There doesn’t seem to be any oxygen left in the car.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t believe what I just saw was real. It didn’t look real.
The black sedan’s door opens, and a figure dressed in black slides fluidly out of the driver’s seat. It’s a man, I think, and he swivels his head up and down the street quickly before crossing toward the prone form in front of his car.
His movements are smooth and controlled as he crouches by Iris’s body, extending a hand toward her and leaving it there for a moment. He scans the street again, and even though his gaze does
n’t land on us, I find myself involuntarily shrinking back into Chase’s body, seeking some protection from the strange, too-calm man.
And that’s when I see it.
The mask.
He’s wearing a black ski-mask pulled down tight over his head, obscuring everything but his eyes and mouth. I didn’t notice at first because the light is so dim, and my brain was trying to process too many things at once.
What?
Why…?
I feel frozen in space, my chest locked up tight, as the man stands and turns back to his vehicle. A small movement out of the corner of my eye makes me jump, and my heart slams in my ribs as Lincoln raises his phone, snapping several pictures in quick succession.
The wild, panicked part of my brain expects the masked man’s gaze to whip toward us, drawn by that tiny movement like some kind of robotic killing machine. But he just slides back into his car, closes the door, and drives around the lump on the road, speeding off into the night. His headlights aren’t even on, I realize.
They never were.
Seconds tick by, and with each passing one, my pulse picks up. My heart felt like it was barely beating as I watched the man crouch over Iris’s body, but now it’s racing in my chest, galloping at a breakneck speed, like it knows its own end is coming and is trying to outrace death.
My eyes sting, but tears don’t come.
I can’t believe this.
Suddenly, my body moves, surprising even me. I reach for the door handle, pulling on it with numb, shaking fingers. But Chase hauls me back before I can get it open, wrapping his arms around me.
“What the hell are you doing, Pool Girl?”
“I have to—we have to—” I scrabble for the handle again, panic rising like a tidal wave in my chest. I don’t even know what we have to do, but we have to do something. Something.
“No.” Lincoln’s voice is rough as gravel. “There’s nothing we can do. She’s fucking dead.”
“But we have to—!”
My pitch is rising, and my movements become even more frantic when Lincoln starts the car.
No. No no no. This isn’t right. Nothing about this is right.
The engine idles with a low sound, and again, the irrationally terrified part of my mind expects the man in black to whip around the corner, to have been lying in wait for us this whole time—or to have heard the soft rumble of Lincoln’s engine from wherever he is now.
But nothing changes on the road ahead of us as Lincoln slowly backs down the small side street. Chase’s arms are still a vise around my body, clamping me tight to him, keeping me from hurling myself out of the car.
