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My forehead crumpled. Old friends?
What the hell were they talking about? I knew my friends, and none of them were deranged psychopaths.
What is this guy playing at?
You disappointed me, de Souza. I thought of all people, you understood the meaning of sacrifice. It isn’t about malice or superiority. A fact is some must die for a greater purpose, and in that purpose they are honored.
Once, you knew that, but you forgot who you were. As your friend, I will remind you.
I’ll bring you back to who you were.
I flipped the note to the back, foreboding settling deep in my bones before the rest was read.
You will choose someone in this godforsaken town and put them out of their misery. I don’t care who you pick or why. You have two weeks and I want the name of the person you’ve chosen sitting in that mailbox in two days.
By Saturday the 13th, if their gruesome death isn’t trending in national news, the death of someone you love will be.
Paris Keller. Bella Hope. Francesca Lopez. One of Francesca’s brats.
Bet you thought you didn’t have anyone left to care about. We’ll find out how true that is in two weeks.
Stay psycho, bitch.
Love ya. XOXO
The note slipped through trembling hands. Gasping, I fought for air, but none was in the room.
The bastard was right. I did think I didn’t have anyone left to care about. Leave it to a killer to rip open a healed wound.
Francesca was Frankie. Gran’s friend, and some days, the only person to make me smile. My mind rebelled at the thought of them hurting one of her kids. Those sweet little ankle-biters who showed off all their missing teeth when they smiled, and kissed me hello the days Francesca went off-route to pick them up from the babysitter.
Bella Hope was the receptionist from the motel. Her father opened it forty years ago, and though she only worked there to save money while completing night school, she treated everyone who came through the door like family. I couldn’t count the times she got me out of my room to watch Netflix and eat Chinese food at the desk.
And Paris.
Tears dripped down my cheeks.
I did care.
I couldn’t let a single one of these women die, nor would I let a single hair on those kids’ heads be harmed.
You’ll be thrown in a cage, and I won’t stop killing the people you love. I’ll never stop. I’ve been here since Bedlam began. I’ll be here long after it’s ash.
What do I do?
“Fuck!” I flung the letter away from me.
This was supposed to be over with Cavendish. I did what he demanded I do. I killed the bastard, and it was supposed to get me my life back. How could there be another one? What did these people want from me?
“Rip out a piece of my soul,” I whispered.
That’s what this is about. That’s what it’s always been about. They want to make me a monster.
I thought of the grave at Black Widow Hill. For all I know, I am one. What if this is punishment for a crime I don’t remember committing?
Then why not just punish me? Why bring Jennifer, Paris, or Frankie into this? Why would this be revenge Scott Cavendish was willing to die for? And what did they mean they’ve been here since Bedlam began?
A dull, throbbing pain formed behind my eyes.
The headaches were constant these days. Advil barely made a dent in them, but I refused to go back to Doc Nash and be prescribed anything stronger. For better or worse, I was facing my horrible, screwed-up life unmedicated.
What to do about this fucking headache isn’t the question, Rainey. It’s what to do about the mad Letter Man threatening to turn you in if you don’t give him the name of the innocent person you’re going to kill in less than a week.
I froze.
I heard something. A creak from outside.
This is an old house. It creaks. I stood even as the thought went through my head, creeping toward the front door.
Thud.
My breath trapped in my chest. Peering through the cracked blinds, I laid eyes on the black-hooded figure standing on my porch.
I shot away and tripped over my feet. Panic blotted out my senses as I went down, hitting the floor with an ear-splitting crash.
Oh my god! He’s outside!
It wasn’t possible he didn’t hear that noise. The Letter Man was on my porch and he knows I’m here.
I scrambled across the floor, shoving my back in the corner.
He’ll leave. He won’t want me to know who he is. His plan to stalk and kill my friends won’t work if his face sketch is posted on every corner.
That was before he believed you were ignoring him, a chilling voice said. He thinks I’m refusing to play his game. What will he do now? What’s the letter he’s leaving supposed to say?
