The Girl Who Survived(41)

But silence from within.

“Oh, come on. It’s freezing out here.” And though the vodka was beginning to take the edge off, she still wasn’t buzzed; probably hadn’t drunk enough to even smooth out the rough edges in her mind. Most likely it had been a bad idea.

“Another one,” she told herself, pounding once more and hearing no response. Well, she was over this. Freezing on a dilapidated stoop wasn’t her idea of how the morning should go.

She tried the damned door.

The knob turned easily in her hand. As if it had been oiled.

Good.

She pushed and the door swung inward without a creak.

“Merritt?” she said again as she peered inside and her eyes adjusted to a shadowy, shifting darkness. A burst of warm air that smelled of cigarette smoke and booze wafted out. No wonder Merritt wasn’t answering. Obviously he had tied one on last night.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had to rouse him from overindulging.

Nor is it close to the first time that he did the same favor for you.

“Touché,” she told the nagging voice in her head as she heard. As she stepped inside, she heard the quiet murmur of the television that was casting the eerie bluish light into the room.

“Merritt?” she said again as a new prickle of anxiety trickled down her spine. For a second she thought she heard footsteps.

Running.

Outside.

But when she stopped and listened over the rapid beating of her heart, she heard nothing.

But the television. The sound must’ve emanated from the television.

She took another step.

Stopped short.

Her heart froze.

“Oh. God.”

First she noticed the dark stains on the carpet.

Then Merritt Margrove. Wedged between the futon and coffee table. She let out a scream and jumped back, her eyes riveted on the unmoving body. He was sprawled on the dirty green carpet, his face pale, a red gash slicing his throat ear to ear.

Blood, so much blood, pooling beneath him, dark red and coagulating. “No,” she whispered, backing up. “No, oh, no . . . no!”

Was there a chance he was alive?

No—impossible.

He was just so . . . dead.

His skin where it wasn’t sprayed in blood was gray, his eyes fixed, no breath rattling from his lungs, no bubbles of red gurgling from his throat where the blade had severed his flesh.

No. No. No!

Her stomach lurched.

Hyperventilating, she backed toward the door.

You can’t just leave him like this! You have to check. There’s a chance he’s still alive.

“He’s not,” she whispered aloud, but forced herself forward, her boot slipping in blood as she reached the unmoving body and bent down. Unable to find a spot to touch on his neck, she reaching for his hand and felt for a nonexistent pulse on a cold, cold wrist.

Nothing.

Of course.

She dropped his fingers and leapt backward, but her gaze was fixed on the dead man she had known, the murdered lawyer she had trusted.

Someone had come here and slit his throat?

Why?

Jonas!

Of course it had to do with her brother’s release!

Her entire body quivered, her stomach churned. Flashes of Christmas Eve twenty years ago cut through her mind. Sharp, painful shards of memories, glittering and jagged like pieces of glass, all stained red with the blood. Mama. Daddy. In their bed, red stains on the bed clothes, their eyes open and staring. And in the living room, the bodies of her brothers, strewn in front of the smoldering fire, their sightless eyes open and wide, their bodies covered in the same dark red, the Christmas tree toppled, the music, that continuous song playing over and over.

Gagging, she inched backward through the open door. The second she was on the stoop she couldn’t keep the meager contents of her stomach in place a second longer. Hanging on to the rotting porch rail, she heaved what little she’d eaten, bile and vodka hurling into the deep snow near the porch.

Merritt was dead.

Murdered.

And the killer . . . ?

Nervously, her heart trip-hammering wildly, she glanced at the surrounding woods, felt the kiss of cold wind on her cheeks.

Had she heard footsteps? Did she catch sight of a shadow darting behind the pines?

Oh, Jesus.

Frantic, breathing hard, she searched the forest, eyes straining against a curtain of snow, heart clamoring in terror as she saw shadows moving between the trees.

Was he here?

Was he watching?

Lurking and biding his time and staring at her and gripped tightly in his fingers? A long, bloody blade.

Was it a knife?

Or maybe a machete?

Or an antique sword, like before?

She was backing up, fear sizzling through her bloodstream. One hand was in her pocket as she scrabbled for her keys. She had to get out of here. She had to get out now! Stumbling, she clambered down the steps.

Then she ran.

Through the drifts of snow.

Cold air slapped at her face.

Snow blinded her.

Fear propelled her ever faster.

Just like before.





CHAPTER 12


Her gloved fingers scraping the door handle of her Jeep, Kara bit back a scream and scrambled inside.

As the engine fired, she hit the gas, reversed crazily, then rammed the Cherokee into drive and took off. Freaked, her insides quivering, the image of Merritt lying in his own blood kaleidoscoping with vibrant pictures of her own slaughtered family. Mama. Daddy. Donner. Sam Junior. All dead. Blood surrounding them. Red spray on the walls. Staining the carpet. Smeared on the handrail of the stairs. And now Merritt . . .