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Frantic, she dials Preston’s number.
But the call doesn’t connect. It doesn’t even reach a dial tone.
Fuck!
She didn’t add minutes—she can’t make any calls or send any texts.
“Stupid asshole,” she snaps to herself with a hushed and hateful voice. The breathy panic of her rapid heartbeats echoes a curse over and over, “Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.”
The useless cell trembles in her hands.
Her only hope is that someone calls her. Kate, when she realizes Billie isn’t behind her anymore, that they are separated. Or Preston, to fight with her some more.
But Billie’s got a feeling they won’t call, she’s got a real bad feeling theycan’t. Especially when—
The long creepy sound of a groan fills the room.
Chills trickle up the back of her legs, up her spine, like icy spiders scattering all over her.
Her gaze snaps up, blue, bloodshot and wild.
Out there in the shadows of the corridor, a floorboard creaked. An identical sound to the one she made in here when she took that last step.
Tremors flutter up her hands to her arms, her shoulders, all the way to her bottom lip. She sucks her lips inwards and stares at the doorway, her chest tight with the breath she holds.
Only darkness and shadows linger out there. The light from the ceiling is so dull it barely touches the floor.
There’s no way the killer can be out there. Surely, she would have heard more than a crash if he’d gotten into the house. Preston would have come back inside and locked the door behind him. Trevor is down there, too.
And where did Kate go without a trace or a sound?
Can’t be. Blood Hood wouldn’t know that the girls are here, either. He wouldn’t know to comeherefor them. They told no one. It was only Billie, Kate and Trevor who knew they were coming in the first place. Maybe Preston, too.
The killer can’t be in the house… it doesn’t make sense… unless he was already inside… unless Blood Hood is one of them.
Billie’s torn on the spot.
Panic screams for her to run into the corridor, race downstairs, and find Kate.
But pure fear urges for her to turn and run back into the bathroom, lock the door, and wait.
The inner battle keeps her frozen in place, one leg itching to move forward, the other to turn around.
But Billie doesn’t get the chance to make her move—
Not before the open door creaks, as if nudged with a gentle push. Slowly, it sways towards the doorframe, closing over… and revealing the corner of the room.
A tall, bulky shadow draped in black looms in that corner, once hidden by the door. That dark shadow holds the glint of a hunting knife smeared with blood.
And it wears the grimy hood.
A wave of nausea sways Billie on the spot.
Blood Hood steps out from behind the door.
11
The last time she stared into those sagging eyeholes on the burlap hood was the first time, and also the night Carmine was killed. Just like then, the darkness of night casts shadows—such thick shadows, so dense that she can’t make out the color of the eyes lurking behind the mask.
