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I maneuver around a corner and quickly duck back behind cover. The kitchen extrudes from this side of the house, more windows on display. And I swear I just saw a figure by the kitchen island. My heart clangs inside my ribs as I strain for the faintest sounds of movement.
Nothing.
Was it my imagination?
I stand, and carefully peer out.
The basin with its large, curving faucet is in the way. There’s someone behind it, but they’re not man-sized.
Charlotte.
My feet charge ahead before I can get my mind under control. Hands pressed to the side of the building, I hurry over frost-brittle grass, maneuvering to avoid the methodically placed rose bushes. From the brief glances I get of the figure, it’s not moving.
I’m too late.
The thought latches on, chilling me more than the frozen ground I’m moving over, or the icy air filling my lungs with each desperate breath. I push on, battling a sudden insane urge to grab the nearest rock and throw it through the window so I can crawl through jagged, broken glass to get to her.
Charlotte.
As I reach the windowsill, a light turns on inside the kitchen. A tall figure walks into view, heading straight for the window. I drop to my heels, hands flat on the wall behind me, my eyes squeezing shut as I force my breathing to return to normal.
I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I didn’t have to.
It’s Red.
And that’s not all I saw.
Oh God, he’s already killed her.
8
CHARLOTTE
The stairs are so narrow, I’m sure Red’s shoulders brush against either wall as he walks up them. I’m in front, uncomfortably aware of just how short this absurd outfit is. He can probably see the curve of my ass. Boy, am I regretting tossing away those frilly panties. At least I’d have been able to maintain some shred of modesty.
It’s such a stupid thing to focus on. I should be coming up with an escape plan.
Moving out of that concrete box of a room is a good step…but now what? Red is huge, powerful, and in his element. I don’t doubt for a moment that he knows every inch of Peter’s lake house. My memories of this place are murky at best. I can’t remember if there’s a kitchen up ahead or a living room.
I swallow hard when I see another door. I flatten myself against the wall as Red comes up behind me, hoping to minimize our contact.
He stays two steps behind me, his arm reaching past me to unlock the door. If I’d been trained in martial arts, I could have attacked him. But I simply watch as the keycard he uses goes back into his left front pocket. I make a mental note of that. I might need it when I escape.
When the door opens, he doesn’t take the lead, but instead gives me a gentle push to get me moving. I could bolt away from him and make a beeline for the closest exit…but the fact that he doesn’t seem in the least concerned with me running away makes me think it would be useless for me to try.
No. Running isn’t a good plan.
Fightingis.
And how do you fight someone who’s bigger, stronger, meaner than you? You can’t. You have to outsmart them, instead.
“Left,” Red says.
I turn into a dining room, catching the briefest glimpse of what I assume is a kitchen before my eyes are scanning a long oak dining table surrounded by pale chairs, pretty art on the walls.
Cold fire spreads all over my skin and my footsteps falter as an awful memory unspools in my mind.
Peter drags me out of the Toy Box, leashed like a dog, the choke chain cutting into my throat every time I resist. My flailing arms catch the back of a dining chair, wide eyes staring in confusion at the guests seated around a long, oak table, eating dinner.
