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My spine jerks at the single authoritative word from the third, inactive party in the scene.
It’s the same voice from earlier. The one who definitely saw me but told his friends there was no one.
Anonymous.
The Joker breathes heavily. “But she—”
“I said. Enough.” His tone exudes more command than earlier. I was right to assume he holds the power, because the Joker pulls on my hair harder and with apparent frustration, the way a subordinate would do in front of their boss.
The way Dad’s underlings shivered in front of him.
“I have to teach her a lesson,” he says low enough that even I’m barely able to hear him.
“When I say enough…” The sound of firm footsteps is accentuated by the violent silence lurking in the air. “I mean fucking enough.”
The weight that’s been crushing me from the back suddenly disappears.
Thwack.
I gasp as Anonymous drives his fist in the Joker’s face and sends him flying.
He doesn’t move.
The Joker, I mean. He’s inert on the ground and my heart nearly spills onto the grass beside him.
My strap falls off my shoulder again and my face is on fire, but I can’t focus on that right now.
“Is he…dead?” I don’t know how I speak so calmly when I’m pretty sure I should be panicking.
“Just unconscious,” Anonymous says with dismissive neutrality that only psychopaths have.
After I slowly get up, I inch closer to my phone that’s lying on the grass, flashing with a text. Probably from Caroline. However, Anonymous reaches it first in a few purposeful strides.
He flips it around, slides it in his pants pocket, then points at his unmoving friend. Though maybefriendis an exaggeration, considering he knocked him out with a single punch. “He might be a weakling, but he’s right. Calling 911 here is extremely unwise and borders on reckless foolishness.”
“I won’t then. Can I get my phone back? I want to go home.”
“The night is still young.” He approaches me with deliberate ease. “What are you supposed to be tonight? A witch?”
“Femme fatale.”
I can’t see his face that’s hidden behind the stupid mask, but there’s a pause and I swear his eyes gleam in the dim light. They look dark blue, like the mystical depths of a merciless ocean.
“Here’s how it’ll go,femme fatale. You’ll keep me company until Devil’s Night is over.”
“Why would I?”
“Either that or I’ll lock you in some basement where no one can find you until the cleaning staff comes along. Which, if I remember correctly, can take a few days depending on whether or not the homeowners need something from the basement.”
My hand balls into a fist, but I slowly release it when his attention slides to it. I see what he’s doing, but those intimidation tactics won’t work on me. Not when I learned them all from my father.
“Shouldn’t there be a third option, where you, I don’t know, just let me go?”
“Not when you could land us in trouble.”
“I have no interest in what I heard and I value my life enough not to tattle on you. So give me my phone and we can be out of each other’s hair.”
“I like your hair, so I don’t mind staying in it.” He’s in front of me in a second and I’m slammed face-first with his smell. It’s a mixture of cedarwood, smoke, and premium cigarettes. European cigarettes that my father used to get specifically from Italy.
