One of Those Faces (70)

My eyes lingered on the computer screen on the other side of the room, where a black-and-white video was pulled up. Immediately, my stomach dropped, but my feet crawled forward. My hands shook as I drew closer. Those were my bedsheets and bed on the screen, Woodstock curled on top of my pillow. There was a time stamp in the bottom corner, rolling forward every second. I staggered back, but my hand gripped the greasy mouse. On the side were thumbnail images from each day in November.

I scrolled up.

October.

September.

My heart drummed in my ears, knocking against my chest furiously. I swallowed the bile pooling in my throat and clicked on a random video in October. My moans and Iann’s roared through the speakers as our bare bodies intertwined, the sheets slipping off the bed and exposing my body as I dug my fingernails into his back.

My hand slipped on glossy paper on the table. I picked it up and dropped it, my fingers trembling. It was a photograph of Holly on the pavement, her eyes open and glassy—deep, dark impressions around her neck.

I tripped over myself as I ran through the dark and collapsed, vomiting onto the bushes in front of the door. I could still hear my own moans through the speakers growing louder behind me as I wiped my lips with my sleeve. I staggered to my feet, my head swimming, and stumbled down the sidewalk. I jogged to the edge of the street, feeling in my pocket for my phone. The screen lit up, and I searched frantically through my call log for Wilder before dialing.

“Wilder,” he answered, flatly.

The video on the computer replayed in my mind. “It’s Harper . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“What happened? Are you okay?” His tone grew more urgent.

“My landlord.” My voice trembled. “I found photos and video . . .” Another wave of vomit filled my throat, and I gagged.

“What kind of photos and video?” he demanded.

“He’s been filming me,” I stammered. “And he has pictures of Holly.” I saw the red-and-purple lines around her neck. That glassy look in her eyes.

“Where are you now? Is he with you?”

I steadied my free hand against my knee, rocking gently forward. “No, I don’t know where he is. I’m outside my apartment.”

“Okay, is there somewhere safe nearby you can wait for me?” I heard the rattling of keys and his chair squeaking over the phone.

My mind raced. “I’ll wait at the park,” I breathed. I could be there around the corner in three minutes.

“Call me when you get there.” The sound of his engine revved.

“Okay.” I hung up and turned the corner toward the park. No. My footsteps halted on the pavement. I couldn’t leave Woodstock in the building with that creep. What if he came back before Wilder and I got there? He would know I had been in his room. What if he came looking for me? It’ll only take a minute. My stomach twisted in knots as I ran back toward the apartment.

I grasped the stair rail to steady myself, splinters from the unfinished wood piercing my skin. When I flung the door open, a sick smell overwhelmed me.

The light from outside poured in behind me and illuminated the red stains on my bed. Blood was rubbed all over the white fabric. It had been too quiet when I came in. No purring, no meowing as I entered. Holding my breath, I walked to the foot of the bed and screamed. The sound ripped from me and scratched my throat as I fell to my knees.

Woodstock’s bloodstained collar was limp on the floor by my bed. My drawings were ripped in shreds on the floor, red flecks dotting the paper.

A clatter sounded behind me, but before I could turn around, my head suddenly jerked back, and my phone crashed to the floor. I gasped and fell, my head hitting the bed frame with a thud.

My body pressed harder into the floor as someone sat on my stomach. I couldn’t see a face in the dim streetlight filtering in through the window, but it smelled like Bug.

“What did you do?” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of my hair.

I pushed him away, but he tightened his knees around my waist. I gasped as he sank more of his weight onto my body and put both his hands on either side of my head.

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” he yelled, sinking his fingernails into my scalp. “Why did you go in there?” The pressure became greater with each word he spat at me.

Both my legs were pinned under his, but I managed to lift one into what I hoped was his groin. He made a guttural sound and loosened his grip, giving me the chance to pry his fingers back.

He recoiled and staggered to his feet, stooping over me. I kicked him in the chest so hard he landed on his back. I grabbed my phone and sprang toward the door. I reached for the handle, but he yanked my hair again from behind.

A scream erupted from my lips as he slammed my head into the nightstand, the lamp rolling off and shattering beside me on the floor.

My scalp was wet and hot, my vision clouded by black dots.

His footsteps approached slowly.

He lowered himself back onto my chest and ripped my hair away from my neck. I raised a hand and pushed his arm, but he grabbed my wrist and slammed it to the floor, then pinned down my other hand with his right leg.

I had regretted surviving for so long. But now, all I wanted was to live.

He gripped my hair. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” he yelled, slamming my skull back to the floor. The black dots reappeared. Both my arms were free again, and I used them to pull at his hands, now wrapped around my throat. “You stupid bitch!”