Never Die Alone

When she’d explained as much to Max, he’d not been heartbroken as she’d expected, but furious. He’d accused her of “leading him on” and “playing with his heart.” Worse yet, red-faced, the veins throbbing in his neck, he’d taken the ring she’d returned and sworn he was going to throw it in the river.

Whether he did or not, she never knew.

From that day forward Max had not attended any of the group meetings—a relief—though for a few months after the breakup she had felt her insides churn before each session. Just the thought that he might appear had made her suffer from a cold sweat. What would she say to him? How awkward would it be? But thankfully, he’d never shown his face again. If he’d contacted any of the other members of the group, they’d kept it to themselves, though, of course, Tanisha wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret.

It seemed as if he’d moved on.

“You’re my guy now,” she said to the cat, and buried her nose in his soft fur. His head was lolling beside the base of her neck, his purring vibrating against her skin. She smiled to herself just as she felt him stiffen, his gentle little motor stopping suddenly.

“What?”

Agilely flipping in her arms, his claws digging into her robe, he stared over her shoulder.

“Hey, what’s the—”

“Sssss!” he hissed, showing his teeth, his eyes focused behind her on the bathroom window. She glanced in the mirror. In the reflection she saw her own worried face and the cat’s tense body. And something else. Movement? Oh, God. A face in the window beyond the screen?

For a second she froze, her eyes meeting another’s in the glass. Then she whirled around. St. Ives’s claws dug deeper. He launched himself to the floor and scrambled into the hallway.

She hit the light switch.

The bathroom went dark, the only slice of illumination through the open doorway from a lamp in the living area.

Pulse pounding in her throat, Bria

She saw nothing in the shifting darkness.

The window was a black box.

Empty.

No menacing face appeared.

No eyes reflected the tiniest gleam of incandescence.

All your imagination.

Then what about the cat?

What had caused his reaction?

Even now, from the safety and shadows of the hallway, he was growling low in his throat, a warning.

Yet she saw no one. Nothing.

Just your imagination, brought on by St. Ives’s paranoia. He’s a cat. He might have sensed a raccoon scouring the garbage cans. Or a bat flying close to the window. Or nothing.

She let out her breath, half-convinced she was imagining things. It wasn’t as if the cat wasn’t skittish.

Her nerves still on edge, she closed the window and snapped the blinds shut. Then she walked through each room in the house, double-checking that every window was latched, every blind or curtain closed, every door locked and dead-bolted.

You’re acting like a crazy person.

“Too bad,” she said to herself, and quickly do

Her jangled nerves finally calmed and she convinced herself that she had not met the gaze of some pervert in her open bathroom window.

Logging into her e-mail, Bria

It was a start.

And, from the looks of it, Selma had e-mailed the police departments directly, which was good. She was starting to be more proactive.

Bria

But her mind wandered to morbid images of those who had died at the hands of the 21 Killer.

Her throat grew thick. “Where are you?” she wondered aloud and bit her lip. Two beautiful girls out on the town, feeling safe with each other, their lives stretching out in front of them.

Were they alive? Just unable to communicate for some reason?

Or had they come to some horrid fate, possibly at the hands of the 21 Killer?

She glanced at the clock and felt a chill run through her.

With each passing hour, she knew the chances of finding them alive slowly dwindled.

Chloe could barely breathe.

Wincing against the smell of dirt and foul water, she watched as he went through the musty basement, straightening, sweeping, and then neatly refolding their clothes, as if he were in the military and getting ready for an inspection. Dresses were first, then underpants, her red thong and Zoe’s black one, which he held up to the light, then actually brought to his nose and sniffed.

Ick! She shivered, watching him.

He wasn’t as calm as he had been before Zoe attacked him. No, he was more agitated and antsy; whatever was left of his serenity was forced. A tic had developed under his eye, and a muscle clenched and relaxed in his jaw. She hoped his agitation meant that he hadn’t found Zoe.

He was naked again except for his apron, and she didn’t want to think about what the undressing was all about. But from the way he had barely acknowledged her, she knew he wouldn’t let her survive. No way. Not after she’d seen his face. The same went for Zoe. They would be able to give the police a very detailed description of him, from the nose that appeared to have been broken at least once, to his tall, muscular build, and the weird tattoo of a mountain and a bleeding heart on one shoulder. He also had a mole on the cheek of his right buttock. She had memorized these features, vowing to remember every detail of the dickwad’s face and body, just in case she ever got the chance to identify him for the police.

Oh, God, would that ever happen?

Much as she hated to admit it, he was an okay-looking dude. Although she considered him repulsive as hell, some might find him attractive. Fit and strong and cold as ice.

It was his eyes that really changed his appearance. Deep-set beneath heavy brows, they were flat and nearly colorless. Like a reptile’s eyes.

Now, of course, he had some scratches on his throat, compliments of Zoe.

He wasn’t quiet, but at least he no longer sang the birthday song, a tune she used to love and now would hate for the rest of her life—however long that was going to be. He kept rambling about someone named Myra. His wife? Girlfriend? Who would be involved with such an effin’ freak? Whoever this Myra person was, she really pissed him off. His muttering was so disjointed that Chloe suspected he didn’t even know he was talking.

The lunatic was just weird, weird, weird.

Even more so, as he snapped up the phone and said, “Yeah?” as if he’d heard it ring when she hadn’t heard anything, not even the telltale rattle of a phone on mute humming across the table. What the hell? God, maybe the guy was psychic as well as psychotic or maybe he was just plain nuts. “I know,” he said, sounding almost disgusted. “I just need a little more time . . . I already told you. I’ll get her.”