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Ten, nine, eight…
I force myself to breathe in and out as slowly as possible, but I can’t get past five before the panic slams back into me and I begin hyperventilating again.
Five finger fun.
My throat burns when I scream.
It’s so damn pathetic, so stupid, but I can’t stop myself.
“Help! Please!” I rush to the door, banging my palms against the pink surface. The surface beneath is ice-cold—not wood, but concrete. I scratch at the tiny seam between the door and the wall, ripping off one of my fingernails. “Help!” I ignore the fact that there are already a few tears and scrapes in the wallpaper, as if I’m not the first to try to claw my way out of here.
My breathing is ragged, too fast, too hot. Every inhale expands my throat, causing the collar to tighten, building on my panic. I spin around, look for something to attack the door with. But I already know there’s nothing else in this godforsaken place but these pink walls, this pink bed, those useless, creepy toys watching me with their lifeless eyes…because I’ve been here before.
Slowly, I look down.
My hands fly to the bodice of the white dress I’m wearing. I grab the top hem, my skin crawling at the feel of the rough, old-fashioned lace.
“No!” The word is a breathless pant. I tug at the form-fitting fabric, but terror turns my muscles to water. I scrabble uselessly at the sweetheart neckline, tugging pathetically at the voluminous skirt with its many, many layers of stiff tulle. My hands reach beneath, shaking, trembling as they slide up my legs. I know what I’ll find before my fingertips brush the silky, frilly panties.
I rip them off with another hoarse scream, tripping as I try to tug them off my ankles. I throw the pale pink fabric away from me like it’s a fucking snake, and scramble onto the bed. I snatch up the pink pillow and trap it to my chest as my mind starts shutting down.
This isn’t possible.
Peter’s dead.
Fyrekilledhim.
This is a dream. Some kind of night terror. Except…I can still feel the faint burn where those panties heated my flesh as I tore them off. I can feeleverything.
My heart bangs inside my chest, and it sounds too loud in this tiny pink room, as if I’m hearing it from the outside, not the inside.
That’s when I catch sight of my toes.
I stare in horror at the glitter carefully painted on each nail. Then I shove my head into the pillow and scream until my voice gives out.
3
FYRE
This is the stuff of nightmares. The black of mold, the iridescent green of decay. The sweetness of putrefaction, metallic blood, salty tears, and sweat. There’s a trail of blood leading up the stairs, and I follow it on automatic while my mind screams at me to call the police, to arm myself. But I’m drawn forward with a magnetism that has nothing to do with self-preservation.
There’s a handprint on the door of my daughter’s bedroom. Bloody. Smeared. Too small for a man. Too big for a little girl.
My wife’s handprint. A desperate slash of protest against the white paint. Is it her blood that led me here?
Arrow barks, and the sound is so loud, so furious, the fear inside me ratchets up to something almost spiritual. Her alarm cuts off with a painedyip, and I barely tamp down a scream of frustration. My chest expands as I haul in a slow breath, and I know I’m too late.
Too late, Fyre.
As if the thought severs the bonds keeping me back from my family, I surge forward like a fucking bullet train. I assume the door will be locked, so I ram it with my shoulder. When it gives way with no resistance, I tip forward and crash onto hands and knees.
There’s a pale gray carpet in here. Soft, downy. Lizzy always loved playing on the floor. But it’s ruined now. I skid through fibers soaked in blood.
We’ll never get this out. It’ll have to be replaced. Maybe it’s time to tile this room. Easier to clean. But no, it’s going to become a nursery, isn’t it? Need a carpet in the nursery, because what if me or Emily drops the baby, less chance of a cracked skull, and that’s—
“Welcome home, Daddy,” comes a man’s voice.
My eyes snap up to the figure standing beside Lizzy’s small bed. I blink slowly, and then scan the room, as if my mind refuses to accept what it sees, as if I’m searching for some indication that I’m trapped in a nightmare conjured up by my irrational fears.
