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Of course it had to do with her brother’s release!
Her entire body quivered, her stomach churned. Flashes of Christmas Eve twenty years ago cut through her mind. Sharp, painful shards of memories, glittering and jagged like pieces of glass, all stained red with the blood. Mama. Daddy. In their bed, red stains on the bedclothes, their eyes open and staring. And in the living room, the bodies of her brothers, strewn in front of the smoldering fire, their sightless eyes open and wide, their bodies covered in the same dark red, the Christmas tree toppled, the music, that continuous song playing over and over.
Gagging, she inched backward through the open door. The second she was on the stoop she couldn’t keep the meager contents of her stomach in place a second longer. Hanging on to the rotting porch rail, she heaved what little she’d eaten, bile and vodka hurling into the deep snow near the porch.
Merritt was dead.
Murdered.
And the killer . . . ?
Nervously, her heart trip-hammering wildly, she glanced at the surrounding woods, felt the kiss of cold wind on her cheeks.
Had she heard footsteps? Did she catch sight of a shadow darting behind the pines?
Oh, Jesus.
Frantic, breathing hard, she searched the forest, eyes straining against a curtain of snow, heart clamoring in terror as she saw shadows moving between the trees.
Was he here?
Was he watching?
Lurking and biding his time and staring at her and gripping tightly in his fingers—a long, bloody blade?
Was it a knife?
Or maybe a machete?
Or an antique sword, like before?
She was backing up, fear sizzling through her bloodstream. One hand was in her pocket as she scrabbled for her keys. She had to get out of here. She had to get out now! Stumbling, she clambered down the steps.
Then she ran.
Through the drifts of snow.
Cold air slapped at her face.
Snow blinded her.
Fear propelled her ever faster.
Just like before.
