Nice Girls(92)

I froze, turning back toward the hallway.

I strained to hear it again.

But I could only hear my own haggard breathing and the wind outside.

I was growing agitated, hysterical.

I tried the rest of the living room. I shoved aside the cushions on the couch. I threw out the books on the shelves, including a black leather Bible and a set of prayer books. I checked the TV cabinets, dumping out the contents: CD cases, cables, DVDs.

But my cell phone was gone.

John Stack had put it either in the bedroom or the basement. Or he’d gotten rid of it completely—dumping it in the lake or smashing it to pieces. Or burning it. He’d had a firepit outside.

I stayed still, looking at the mess on the living room floor.

The situation became clear:

I couldn’t find help until it was warmer and there was light outside.

I was stuck in the cabin for the night.

I wanted to scream.

The cabin was a hell. And I was trapped inside of it while a body was rotting in the basement and blood was on my— Something creaked.

I stayed still.

I didn’t dare breathe.

And I waited in the silence.

I heard another creak.

Then another.

They were coming from the bedroom.

John Stack was alive.

I backed away, my head spinning. I was in the foyer between the kitchen and the living room, next to the front door.

I tried turning the knob. It didn’t budge. I rattled the doorknob, twisting it back and forth. I even tried yanking the door back with all the weight of my body. But it didn’t move.

John Stack had dead-bolted the door. No one got out without the key.

As far as I knew, he’d done the same thing to the glass doors in the kitchen.

I was trapped inside.

A scream was stuck in my throat, the rest of me pulsing with fear. I thought about battering the door with my fists until they bled.

I wasn’t thinking straight.

I needed a weapon. I noticed a set of wooden hooks on the wall beside me. John Stack had hung up a red baseball cap, a scarf, a black rosary. But the last hook caught my eye. I recognized the flimsy plastic keychain of a rose, the red mostly worn off, and the two small keys attached to it.

They were my keys—one for the house, one for the car. John Stack had kept them.

I grabbed them, my hands shaking. The metal was cold, but they felt more real and solid than anything else around me. If I could get back to Mom’s car, I would be all right.

The thought made me gleeful, delirious.

But I heard another creak.

And the clank of a door handle.





48




I bolted for the kitchen island—it was the only hiding spot I could see. There were utensils splayed on top of it from earlier. I grabbed a small carving knife in one hand and kept my keys in the other. Then I crouched low.

The seconds stretched by, the silence growing heavy.

I waited for the door to slam open or a voice to boom—I was bracing for it.

But there was only a faint click. It was so soft that I almost thought I hadn’t heard it.

The bedroom door squeaked open.

John Stack moved down the hallway. His footsteps were light.

“Dammit, Mary,” he crooned, his voice low. “You’re really somethin’.”

Heart in my mouth, I crept even farther around the island, my back to the sink. I squeezed the keys in my hand, making sure that none of them jangled. John Stack was quietly padding into the kitchen.

“You come to my property and ruin my house. Disgusting.”

He sounded like he was speaking directly into my ear. He was on the other side of the island.

I shut my eyes, holding my breath. I braced myself for it, that moment when I would turn around and find John Stack looming over me . . .

The floor creaked.

He was padding away, creeping into the living room.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the snow through the sliding door.

“Bad company ruins good morals,” he said from a distance. “You’ve made me swear today, Mary. That’s a problem.”

I had only seconds left.

“You’re making me very angry,” he said calmly. He slammed open the living room closet. His back was to me.

I hurried toward the sliding door. I lifted up the black bar on the lock, trying to slide the door left.

But the door wasn’t moving. It was frozen.

I tugged at it even harder, my heart pounding so loud that I thought he could hear it.

“You’ve been impolite, Mary,” he called.

I panicked, yanking on the sliding door with both hands. It suddenly jerked a few inches left, screeching in the process. The cold air blasted in. I could hear John Stack entering the kitchen. I kept yanking at the door, but it didn’t budge any farther. The gap was only a few inches wide.

He was close now.

I shoved my way through the gap, the door clawing into my stomach.

I thought I felt a hand on my arm.

But I was stumbling away from the cabin, the snow burying my shins. I lifted one foot after the other. The snow was drenching my pants, soaking my legs. I was already freezing. But I kept stumbling forward anyway.

When I finally passed a line of trees, I looked back. I expected John Stack to be behind me, only a few feet away.

But he hadn’t left the house. He was standing behind the patio door, his glasses somehow intact, the front of him covered in blood. He had the rifle in one hand. But he didn’t chase after me. He just stood there.