Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  Come on. Think.

  I didn’t have time to keep working on the screws. The center of the board was the weakest. I scooted back as far as the chain on the handcuffs would allow and slammed my heel into the center of it. Pain resonated through my entire foot and up into my leg, but the board bowed on impact. I had to kick harder. I kicked it again, but it still wasn’t enough force. I needed more room, or steel-toed boots. I kicked it a third time and it cracked, but I was out of time.

  The killer—Edward—stepped into the open doorway. His broad shoulders spanned the width of the door frame, and his head was just shy of grazing the top of it. He was . . . enormous.

  “Hello, Holly,” he said with a small smile.

  He wasn’t wearing a mask this time. There was no point in hiding his face when he didn’t intend for there to be any survivors. It was almost exactly the face I remembered, but older.

  I gathered my legs beneath me in a crouch in the corner of the bed and watched him warily. He strode into the room, his dark bottomless eyes slithering over me.

  “I realize the handcuffs are unusual. But I couldn’t have you wandering out of bed before it was time again,” he explained. He paused by the head of the bed and ran his fingers leisurely along the headboard. “You have a habit of disappearing.”

  His fingers trailed down the slats of the headboard toward me. I tried to jerk away from him, but the handcuffs cut into my wrists and held me in place.

  “And you’re still trying to disappear.” His fingers brushed across the tops of my hands, tracing small circles on my skin, and I clenched my fingers into fists.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, and wished I didn’t sound so afraid.

  “Such lovely skin.” His gaze followed the lines of my body up to my face. The desire burning in his dark eyes sent my pulse racing. He sat down on the edge of the mattress with more grace than a man his size should be capable of, and I fought a shiver.

  I tucked my toes into the mattress and tried to condense myself into as small a space as possible. “Where are the rest of my clothes?”

  “I’m afraid I had to remove them. Too many layers interfere.” He ran a bare finger down my arm, and I recoiled from him.

  I wanted him to stop touching me; I needed him to stop before panic overrode my senses. I had to keep my head clear so I could think my way out of this situation; there had to be a way out. I couldn’t just curl into a ball and let this happen.

  “Where’s Marx?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s around, but you don’t need to worry about him.” The tip of his index finger traced the edge of my ear and down the curve of my neck.

  “I . . . w-wanna see him.”

  His fingers froze on my throat and then slowly folded into a fist. Some frightening emotion I couldn’t identify lit his eyes, and I braced myself, certain he was going to hit me again. “I decide when that happens. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for eighteen years and I intend to savor it.”

  He leaned over me, his body so close to mine I could feel the heat of it on my cold skin. Panic crawled the walls of my stomach and I tried to move away from him, but there was nowhere to go.

  He breathed heavily in the crook of my neck, and I felt his fingers twine through my hair. “You smell divine. Like . . . coconuts and fear. Are you afraid, Holly?”

  Tears gathered behind my eyes, and I squeezed them shut. He petted my hair like a person might pet a cat, and then his fingers brushed down the length of my arm, sending goose bumps of revulsion across my skin.

  The sound of something clicking made my eyes snap open. He was unlocking the handcuffs.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” he suggested.

  He tossed the handcuffs carelessly over his shoulder, and they landed on the floor. He wrapped his thick hand around my wrist and dragged me across the bed.

  I had no idea what he intended to do with me, but now that my wrists were free, I had to take advantage of my opportunity to fight. I twisted my body as I slid across the mattress and kicked him in the stomach. He exhaled a pained breath, and his fingers loosened reflexively. I wrenched my wrist away from him and sprang off the bed. He snatched my upper arm before I could reach the doorway and dragged me back.

  “It’s pointless to fight, Holly. You can’t win.”

  I grabbed the burning candle and flung hot wax at him. He let out a screech of pain and cupped his face. The room plunged into complete darkness without the candle, and I stumbled blindly toward the doorway.

  I slid across the dusty floor in the hallway as I darted toward the staircase. Edward slammed into me from behind and nearly sent both of us bouncing down the steps to the bottom floor. His arms locked around my chest and stomach like iron bars, and my feet left the floor. I screamed and my desperate cry echoed off the walls of the empty, abandoned house.

  “I see no one ever taught you your place,” he growled.

  He tightened his arms around my chest in a vise-like grip, crushing the breath from my lungs. It felt like he was going to break my ribs. I would’ve cried out in pain, but I couldn’t get enough air.

  He carried me down the familiar hallway I hadn’t seen in years, and I realized he was taking me to my parents’ room – the room where every member of my family had died.

  Where I would’ve died if I hadn’t snuck downstairs for a glass of water that night. I remembered pausing at the top of the steps on the way back to my bedroom because I heard strange sounds coming from my parents’ room.

  My father was crying—quiet, wrenching sobs of grief.

  Curious, I padded down the hallway in my bare feet with my stuffed bunny—Freckles—to see what was wrong. I didn’t see my mother’s body until I fell over top of her.

  I was too stunned and horrified to scream. I just stared at the dark liquid shimmering on my hands. My father’s urgent whisper broke the spell.

  He told me not to scream. Just to run. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I did as he said. I ran, even as I heard the cries of my sister Gin echoing down the hall as the killer marched her to her death.

  I abandoned both of them that night. I left Gin when she needed me the most. She must have been so terrified; she must have wondered where I was and why I wasn’t with her.

  “No,” I wheezed. There were too many dark memories in that room, and I didn’t want to go.

  “Oh yes,” Edward whispered, and he sounded almost giddy. “We’re going to have an interesting night where it all began. Just you, me, and the woefully inadequate detective who’s incapable of keeping his promises of safety and protection.”

  Unscented candles were placed around the disheveled room, creating a warm, romantic atmosphere. Nothing remained of the furniture; what hadn’t been taken by looters lay in pieces on the floor. The curtains were sheer wisps of fabric that hung over wood-slatted windows.

  Edward stepped into a dark stain that expanded across the floorboards. A fresh wave of dizziness swept over me as I stared down at it, realizing this was the very spot where my mother had taken her last breath.

  “Holly,” Marx called, and his voice was thick with worry. “Are you okay?”

  My gaze snapped to him. He’d been stripped of his jacket and gun, and he was missing a shoe. His arms and legs were bound to a chair, and his face looked swollen and red. Edward had tied him up and beaten him.

  Something wet stained the right side of his black T-shirt, and I remembered the bloody smears on the car seat. His injuries were far worse than a few blooming bruises.

  Edward dropped my feet to the floor, and I tried to squirm away from him and run to Marx, but he pulled me back flush against him and wrapped an arm loosely around my throat.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time for tearful reunions,” he said.

  I felt the edge of a blade press against my stomach, and I stilled. Marx swore under his breath as he pulled at his restraints.

  “Let’s go over the rules,” Edward said as he tapped the blade lightly against my s
tomach with every musical syllable. “I know you’ve studied me, Detective, but you don’t know me. I like to play fair.”

  “Fair?” Marx gritted out. “You’re about to torture a woman half your size. How is that even remotely fair?”

  “It’s fair because I say it is. You have a warped view of the world. Let me show both of you how things are supposed to work in this world.”

  He picked up the nearest candle, and I gasped as he dragged me forward with his arm around my throat. I tried to keep my feet under me, but they slipped and stumbled over the debris on the floor. He turned me so I could see Marx.

  “Holly, you burned me . . .” He tipped the candle and poured hot wax onto Marx’s forearm. Marx gritted his teeth and his fingers clenched into fists over the arms of the chair. “I burn him.”

  “Stop,” I pleaded. “Please stop.”

  Edward tipped the candle upright, and the flow of scalding wax slowed to a trickle and dripped down the side of the candle. “Am I clear?”

  I nodded. What I did to him, he would do to Marx. If I fought him, he would hurt him.

  “Holly,” Marx said, and his eyes were pure fury as they slid from Edward to me. “Fight him. Do you understand me?”

  I couldn’t. There was no way I was going to overpower him, and everyone in this room knew it. Fighting him would only make him hurt Marx more, and he’d already suffered enough.

  He must have seen the answer in my eyes because he snapped, “Don’t you dare try to protect me, Holly.”

  He was hoping that if I fought back, the killer would concentrate on hurting him rather than me. I didn’t want that.

  He’d been trying to protect me for months; maybe now it was my turn to protect him. I couldn’t save us, but maybe I could at least save him from any more pain.

  Guilt and regret drained the strength from my voice. “I’m so sorry. For all of this. I’m sorry for Jacob.”

  “None of this is your fault, Holly.”

  Edward chuckled. “Oh, usually I prefer a husband and wife, but this is an interesting dynamic, even for me. You’re more than just a cop to her, and she’s more than just another case to you. Is it the face? She does have a very pretty face. Obviously, that’s not why she’s drawn to you.” He dragged the back of his hand lightly down my cheek, and I bit down on my lips to keep from whimpering.

  Marx twisted in his chair.

  “Does it frustrate you, Detective? That you can’t help the damsel in distress.” Edward leaned down and drew in the scent of my hair with a moan of pleasure. “And what a lovely damsel she’s grown into.”

  Marx’s eyes glittered with hatred as he looked up at the killer. “You’re a coward. You drug people, beat them, and then torture them to death.”

  “Oh, not you, Detective. I’m just going to slit your throat when all is said and done, but Holly and I . . .” He dragged the blade gently across my abdomen in something eerily like a caress, and I shivered. “Oh, we have a long evening planned. Isn’t that right, Holly?”

  I wasn’t prepared as the knife sliced a shallow cut across my ribs, and a small cry of pain escaped my throat. He clamped his bare hand over the wound and pulled me tighter against him as he said, “We’re just getting started.”

  Panic wrapped around my chest, and I could barely breathe. He was going to do to me what he’d done to my mother. I would never survive that much physical pain.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and sought the place in my mind where pain was nothing but a distant whisper. My drunken foster father had laid the foundation for that place, and my experiences with Collin had erected the walls, assembled the roof, and attached the door. It was how I had survived his torment for eleven months. I crawled inside the protective walls of that fortress and felt the vise of panic around my lungs loosen.

  The blade drew another shallow line across my skin, and I breathed through it. It was a strange sensation; I could feel the pressure of the knife as it bit into my skin, but it was like it was happening to someone else.

  “Holly,” Marx called. “I need you to open your eyes and look at me.”

  I didn’t want to open my eyes; I wanted to stay in this safe place that blacked out the world around me.

  “Please,” he said.

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and saw tears shimmering in his. It was hurting him to sit there helplessly and watch. A small frown line appeared between his eyebrows as he searched my face, and I wondered if my eyes betrayed the fact that I was hiding.

  “Stay with me,” he said.

  I heard the real message behind his words: Don’t give up. I wasn’t giving up; I was just . . . going away until it was over.

  “Focus on me,” he insisted. I held his gaze, longing for the promises of safety and hope I saw glistening there. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  “Oh, don’t lie to the woman, Detective,” Edward said with obvious amusement. “You’re supposed to protect her, but you can’t. You’re tied to a chair like some pathetic kidnap victim awaiting rescue. I can do anything I want with her.” He swayed, and my body moved with him in a slow rhythmic dance.

  He pulled his hand away from the red stain spreading down my tank top and let out a quiet gasp of pleasure that I tried not to contemplate too deeply.

  “When was the last time you went on a date, Holly?” Marx asked too loudly, drawing my attention away from the killer’s fingers and back to him. That was an odd question given what he’d recently discovered about my past.

  “I’ve never been on a date,” I told him, and my voice sounded hollow.

  The tense line between his eyebrows smoothed out, and I realized he must have been trying to get my attention for a while. I hadn’t heard him call my name—I’d been distracted by my blood on the killer’s fingers—so he’d asked a question he hoped would surprise me.

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

  “Purple.”

  Edward’s knife pressed into my stomach and then hesitated when Marx asked, “Why?”

  “Stop talking to her,” he growled.

  “Because it’s the color of lilacs in the spring, and they’re my favorite flower. And I think eggplants are . . .” Another shallow slice made my voice hitch as I answered him. “Pretty.”

  Marx blinked back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks, but he didn’t close his eyes. He stayed with me as he’d requested I do with him. “You struck me as more of a rose girl.”

  “It’s the red hair,” I said without inflection. “Roses remind me of that childhood song, ‘Ring around the rosie.’ Roses were carried to cover up the scent of death. Creeps me out.”

  “Be quiet,” Edward demanded. He pulled the knife away from my stomach and pointed it at Marx. “You watch. You don’t speak.”

  Marx didn’t even spare him a dismissive glance. “My favorite color is blue. Like the ocean.”

  “I’ve never been to the . . .”—the arm around my neck squeezed, cutting off my voice for an instant—”ocean,” I choked out defiantly.

  The skin around Marx’s eyes tightened. “We’ll have to fix that someday.”

  “I said stop,” the killer objected more loudly. I could hear the fury in his normally smooth voice. Marx was ruffling him, though I wasn’t sure how.

  “Don’t interrupt, Eddy,” Marx chastised.

  “My name is Edward,” the killer gritted out.

  Marx ignored him as he continued talking to me. “There’s nothin’ quite like a walk on the beach, though you’re more of a runner, if I remember correctly. You should run there sometime. It’s just the sound of the waves and the seagulls. No distractions. Peaceful. An escape from the city, the people, the cars . . . which everybody needs from time to time.”

  If I were in a state of panic, I wouldn’t have recognized the message he was trying to communicate, but I heard it clearly. Run. Somehow, he intended to provide a distraction, and he wanted me to escape. He expected me to leave him behind, but I didn’t think I could do that.

&
nbsp; He was strapped to a chair, completely helpless to defend himself, but then . . . I was completely free and I couldn’t defend myself either. Edward’s rules had made certain of that. I needed to find a weapon—anything—that I could use to keep Edward at bay until help came.

  I would not let Marx die for me.

  “There you are,” he sighed, and something in his face relaxed just a little. He’d been worried I was too far gone to understand what he was saying or to even bother trying to survive. His plan forced me to climb out of that safe place and figure out what to do. “What’s your favorite food, Holly?”

  “Marshmallows,” I whispered, and my voice shook. The pain was back; I didn’t want it. I wrestled with whether or not to crawl back into my hiding place or to try to fight what felt like a hopeless battle.

  My internal struggle must have been visible on my face because Marx pleaded, “Stay with me, sweetheart.” Tears burned down my cheeks and I gritted my teeth. Stay.

  “I said stop talking to her!” Edward bellowed in my ear, and I cringed.

  Marx shot him a patronizing look. “We’re tryin’ to have a conversation here, Edmond. I’ll get to you in a minute.”

  Edward’s arm squeezed tighter, and I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at his arm, but it was like a metal band locked around my throat.

  “You don’t decide what happens here. I do!” Edward shouted.

  “Use your inside voice, Eddy,” Marx suggested calmly. “We don’t shout in the house, and we don’t interrupt people. Or didn’t your father teach you any manners when he was puttin’ you in your place? Or was it your mother who was too busy ignorin’ you to teach you to be civilized?”

  “Holly is mine,” Edward declared through clenched teeth.

  Marx arched his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure she’s enjoyin’ my company more than yours.”

  He was intentionally provoking him. I gasped for breath as Edward drew his arm up in anger, and everything but the tips of my toes left the floor. God help me. He was going to strangle me.