He freed Emerson’s arm, and she lunged immediately for the door. In the back of the house, she could hear Tenley doing the same. “What the hell?” she heard Tenley cry. Emerson pulled desperately at the handle, but the door didn’t budge.
She spun back around to find Sam watching her. His eyes were eerily void of emotion. It made him strangely un-lifelike, like a walking cadaver. “Smart house remote control,” he explained. In the kitchen, Tenley kept clawing at the locked door, to no avail. Sam pushed another button on the remote, and it momentarily glowed red. “We’re in panic mode now. No one gets in, and no one gets out.”
He gestured toward the living room. A white leather couch was the focal point. It was flanked by matching leather armchairs, and a chrome-and-glass coffee table. Something about how crisp and spotless it was unsettled Emerson. The house was too clean, too perfect. Like Sam, it was almost un-lifelike. “Take a seat,” Sam said. He didn’t lift his voice, but the command in his words was clear. It wasn’t a question.
Emerson moved woodenly toward the couch. There were floor-to-ceiling windows behind it, which made the outside feel tantalizingly close, as if she could just reach out and touch the cold night air. She turned away. The windows were at her back as she sank into the plush leather cushions. Tenley sat next to her, close enough that their knees knocked together. A full-length mirror hung on the wall opposite them, next to a fireplace. As Emerson stared at their reflection in it, an odd detachment settled over her. It was as if a veil had suddenly dropped over her eyes. She could still see through it—could see her wide-eyed reflection, could see Tenley’s hand grabbing hers, nails digging into skin—but it was all distant, like watching a movie screen. She couldn’t feel a thing.
Sam paced past the mirror, momentarily blotting out their reflection. “I suggest you tell me what’s going on while I still have some patience.” His voice had taken on a soft, soothing quality. It was a dad’s voice now, a voice that belonged to bedtime stories and good nights. But there was that same deadness in his eyes as he stopped in front of them, and the veins in his hand bulged from gripping the remote so tightly. They were tells: This wasn’t the voice of a dad, or the teller of bedtime stories. This voice belonged to a monster.
Sam’s gaze traveled from Tenley to Emerson. His expression hardened, and suddenly Emerson saw it: He knew. He knew they knew, and he had no plans to let them go. Tenley stiffened next to her. She saw it, too. “Someone better speak.” Again, Sam didn’t lift his voice, but the threat flashed in his eyes, unspoken.
Emerson’s mouth felt as if it were filled with sand. She couldn’t open her lips to formulate a word.
“I was in your basement!” Tenley blurted out. Her face was set in concentration, as if she was calculating each word. “Just like you were in our houses and our cars.” Tenley’s voice broke, but she didn’t stop. “Just like you were in our bedrooms.”
Sam cocked his head. Through her veil, Emerson could see his sculpted cheekbones, his thick blond eyebrows. Tenley’s nails dug into her hand, so hard it should hurt, but it was all so distant: dreamlike. “What are you talking about?” Sam asked slowly.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Tenley’s voice broke again. Her shoulder shuddered against Emerson. “I saw everything downstairs. I saw the red room and the train and”—the last word rode out on a sob—“the body.”
That word. Body.
It pushed through the veil, sending pins and needles down Emerson’s arms. Her eyes flew to Tenley. “Body?” she choked out. “Was it…?”
“Dead,” Tenley spat out. “A woman.” Tears filled her eyes, but she jutted her chin out in defiance as she turned back to Sam.
Emerson sagged against the couch. The word was in her head now, working its way through all her defenses. A body. In Sam’s basement. Sam had killed someone. Sam would kill them.
The veil splintered away, and all at once she could feel everything: the sharp prick of Tenley’s nails on her hand, the tugging in her lungs as she drew in more air, the terror flattening her insides. And beneath it all, a single purpose, rising, solidifying.
Stop him.
“I know who you are,” Tenley continued. Tears were streaming down her face, but she kept talking. “And I know what that red room is. I know it’s where you held Caitlin.”
Time seemed to skip forward and backward. It was all a circle, one tragedy bleeding into another: Caitlin and the Lost Girls and now them. It all came back to this house. Stop him. She could hear the words this time. They came in Caitlin’s voice, whispered softly in her ear.
She blinked, her vision refocusing. She dragged her eyes over the room. Other than the furniture, the decor was sparse. A large modern painting hung on one wall, and a thin silver vase filled with fresh flowers stood on the mantel. Her eyes traveled down to the fireplace. A set of wrought-iron fireplace tools stood next to it. A shovel. A broom. Tongs. Her eyes locked on the last tool: a poker. Its point was long and sharp. A perfect weapon.
“And I have proof of the room,” Tenley was saying. “Photos.” Emerson could feel her trembling as she pulled her phone out of her pocket and pressed several buttons. “And now my friend has the photos,” Tenley rushed on. “If you want me to get them back—keep them from going to the police—you better let us go right now.” As she spoke, her finger kept moving over her phone. Emerson watched as she dialed three numbers. Nine. One. One.
Sam laughed. A low bark of a sound. “Like I said, the house is in full panic mode.” He enunciated each word carefully, as if talking to a child. “All cell and Internet service is cut off. Any message you send will bounce right back to you.”
The poker seemed to shimmer in its holder. Stop him. It wasn’t Caitlin’s voice anymore; it was her own.
Tenley was saying something next to her, but it faded to white noise. Sam was preoccupied with Tenley. This was her chance. She lunged off the couch and wrapped her hand around the poker. In a single thrust, she had it pointed at Sam. It sliced through the air, driving straight into his shoulder.
There was euphoria in fighting back. As the poker tore through suit jacket and flesh, as blood spilled and Sam screamed, the euphoria flooded Emerson’s veins like a drug. It filled her with power.
Tenley was off the couch now, halfway toward the fireplace tools. Emerson jabbed again, but Sam was quicker this time. He jumped out of the way, hugging the remote to his chest. Blood darkened his suit jacket and drained color from his face. “You’re going to regret that.” His voice, so silky and smooth before, came out rough. He moved toward her, and he was someone else altogether now, not a person at all, but just parts: mouth and hands and eyes, cobbled together to form a beast.
Emerson could hear Tenley behind her, lifting another iron tool. “We’re armed,” Emerson said shakily. “And you’re not. Let us go.”
Sam approached her. Everything sharpened. The bitter smell of blood. The high, stringy sound of Tenley’s breathing. The feel of her muscles, tightening. Instinct took over as Sam moved even closer. She stabbed at him, aiming the poker at his stomach.
Sam dodged the attempt, making Emerson stumble forward. She’d barely had time to catch her balance when his foot slammed into her back. She went careening forward. She landed hard on her knees, losing her grip on the poker. It skittered across the floor, out of her reach.
Her knees were screaming in pain, but she forced them to move, to crawl toward it. She was getting close when there was a crash from behind, followed by a high-pitched scream.
“Tenley!” Emerson twisted around. Sam had Tenley pinned against the wall, the iron fireplace shovel pressed up against her neck. She looked so small next to him, fragile as a doll. One twist and she’d break in half. “Don’t do anything rash,” Sam warned Emerson, “or I’ll smash her head in.” The eerie calmness had returned to his voice, and it sent ice through Emerson’s veins.
Her eyes darted to the poker. Just a few more inches and she’d be there. She could grab it and run, smash a window, and save herself. She edged toward it. A whimper from Tenley stopped her. She looked back. Sam had pushed the shovel deeper into Tenley’s neck. Tenley’s eyes bulged wide, and an awful scratchy noise came out when she tried to scream. She was struggling, kicking, and twisting, but Sam was stronger. He pushed the shovel even harder, making tears roll down Tenley’s face. His free hand went to Tenley’s chin. “It would be so easy,” he said softly. He loosened the shovel just enough to tilt Tenley’s head forward. “This wall is concrete. One hard smash against it”—he gently pressed Tenley’s head back to demonstrate—“and, crack, game over.”
Sam turned to look at Emerson. “Touch that poker again and I’ll do it.” His voice was a purr. The curve of his lips told Emerson that he’d enjoy it, too. Shame burned at her cheeks, stronger even than her fear. How could she have thought of leaving Tenley? She rose unsteadily and stepped away from the poker.