Chapter 273

She didn’t want to open it. She wanted to run. But the bathroom door was behind her and her legs had turned to lead.

She ripped the curtain back.

Empty.

Just the white porcelain tub. A slow drip from the faucet. Plink. Plink.

Charla let out a sob of relief and slid down the wall, collapsing onto the cold tile floor.

“Crazy,” she gasped. “I’m going crazy.”

She sat there for a moment, gathering herself. Then she stood, kept her eyes deliberately away from the bloody writing on the mirror, and walked back into the bedroom.

The room was freezing. She could see her own breath.

Someone had turned the AC down to its lowest setting.

Charla crawled back into bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Then she felt it.

Weight.

Something heavy settled onto the foot of the bed.

Charla’s eyes flew open.

A figure sat at the end of the mattress. It wore a hospital gown stained with brown, dried blood. Long, dark hair hung down over its face.

Slowly, the figure raised its head.

Cailin.

Her face was pale as chalk. Her lips were blue. Her eyes were dark, hollow pits.

“You…” Charla whispered. “You’re dead. The news said you were in a coma.”

Cailin tilted her head. “I am dead, Charla. You killed me.”

“No!” Charla grabbed a pillow and hurled it.

Cailin didn’t flinch. She simply sat there.

Then she raised her right hand.

The light from the hallway caught the blade of the scalpel. It glinted — sharp and wicked.

“It’s cold in the basement,” Cailin whispered.

She stood. Each movement was a visible, agonizing effort; she braced one hand against the bedpost to keep from collapsing. Yet she moved forward nonetheless, and every step sent a fresh wave of agony tearing through her abdomen.

“You should come see.”

“Stay away from me!” Charla scrambled backward and fell off the bed. She clawed toward the door on her hands and knees, reached the handle, and twisted it.

Locked.

“Help! Hilliard! Help me!” Charla screamed, pounding both fists against the wood.

She spun around.

Cailin was standing directly behind her.

She stepped down onto the hem of Charla’s silk pajama pants, pinning her to the floor. Then she leaned down, her breath coming in ragged, labored gasps, and brought the scalpel to Charla’s cheek. The metal was ice cold against her skin.

“Why?” Cailin asked. “She is five years old.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Charla shrieked, tears streaming freely down her face. A dark stain spread across the front of her pants. “I just wanted you gone! You and your bastards! You were ruining everything!”

“So you sent her to freeze?” Cailin pressed the blade harder. A bead of blood surfaced on Charla’s cheek.

“Yes! Yes, I told her to go! I wanted her to die so Hilliard would forget you! I’m sorry! Please don’t kill me!” Charla was sobbing, a pathetic and broken thing on the floor. “I confess! I did it! I hired the truck! I sent the kid! Just let me go!”

BOOM.

.

.

.