“Fingers crossed.” I smile, then head to the half bath down the hall. After taking care of business and washing my hands, I untie my hair so I can put it back into a bun that is just as messy as the one I had it in before, minus the pieces falling out. After checking my refection one last time, I open the door to the bathroom and walk to the kitchen.
Not seeing Shell there, I move to the front door but stop dead in my tracks when I see her on the floor, with a redheaded woman standing over her. As I gasp, the woman spins around, taking a step back from Shell, dropping her purse.
“Sh-She just pass… passed out,” the woman stammers, and I quickly make my way across the space between us and drop to my knees at Shell’s side, grabbing her jaw with the tips of my fingers.
“Shell? Shell, are you okay?” I shake her, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to take a breath. I turn to look up at the woman to tell her to call 911, but as I do, something slams into the back of my head, and pain registers right before darkness takes me.
_______________
I COME AWAKE with a groan and wrap my hand around my head when it throbs, feeling wetness against the tips of my fingers. It takes me a minute to get my eyes to open, and when they do, I look up at a blank ceiling and notice a couch on one side of me and a coffee table on the other. I close my eyes, trying to piece together where I am and why my head is aching, and that’s when everything comes back to me.
Shell, the woman, and being hit.
Oh God.
I force my eyes back open, and my stomach churns. Fighting the urge to puke, I roll to my belly, then push up to my knees. Ignoring the red on the almost-white carpet, I grab onto the couch to hold myself up for a moment, hoping that the pause will ease some of the dizziness. Once I’m sure I won’t vomit or pass out, I stand and look around, seeing I’m in the front living room at the Hudson house.
Relieved, I stumble on shaking legs toward the entryway, and I’m halfway there when I hear a scream. My stomach twists at the sound, and I glance at the door, my exit to safety, then toward the direction I heard the pain-filled sound coming from.
Without thinking, I head to the kitchen slowly, making sure to keep low and hopefully out of sight, then once there, I start to quietly search for something to use as a weapon. The first drawer I open is nothing but restaurant flyers, the next wooden spoons, and it isn’t until the third one that I find a bamboo block filled with a variety of knives. Hearing a cry of pain, I grab the biggest knife I see, then with my heart pounding so hard the blood in my veins is making a whooshing sound in my ears, I walk with my back pressed against the wall toward the master bedroom. The only door that is closed at the end of the long hall.
When I get there, I listen, not hearing anything over my own beating heart. I wonder what the hell it is I’m doing, because this is how every single horror movie plays out at the end, with some idiot woman going toward a sound she knows she should run away from. Gripping the knife a little tighter, I place my hand on the door handle and turn slowly, wanting to be able to just peek inside before I decide my next move.
As I push in, I look into the room, and all I see is a couch and a TV. I let out a silent curse about rich people with so much money they can afford what is basically a living room inside their bedroom, then open the door a little wider.
When I hear a louder whimper but don’t see anything, I step inside, then keep close to the ground as I scoot toward the wall that separates the sitting area from the actual bedroom. As I reach the step and archway, I look around the corner and immediately wish I had run for help instead of pretending to be brave. I pull back and close my eyes, still seeing blood—so much blood—and Shell’s naked body spread out on the bed, with her head hanging over the edge, almost all her blonde hair stained red.
Holding the knife tighter in my grasp, I hear a woman talking but can’t make out what she’s saying. It sounds like she’s in another room, the bathroom maybe or the closet, both on the opposite side of the wall from me. I look at the bedroom door, and just as I plan to take a step that way, I hear a quiet whimper, and my eyes slide closed. If I leave Shell now, chances are she won’t be alive by the time the cops arrive. Saying a silent prayer, I walk to the archway and peek around the corner, seeing the closet door is open and dark. The bathroom door is closed.
Tiptoeing, I go to the bed to check on Shell and rest my fingers against her neck to check her pulse. “Shell,” I whisper, and tears of relief and dismay fill my eyes when she doesn’t respond, but I see her chest move up and then back down ever so slightly. The breath causing blood to bubble from the small stab wounds on her chest.
She’s still alive, but there is no way I will be able to get her out of here without help, and I don’t even know that it would be safe to move her even if I could. I glance at the bathroom door, hearing the woman in there still talking to someone, then look around the room, trying to come up with some kind of plan.
There are not a lot of options. I either try to catch the woman and knock her unconscious when she walks out, or hold the door closed on this side until someone comes into the house. And since I don’t have my cell phone to call for help and no one knows where I am, that could be a long while. Plus, I honestly don’t know if I’d be strong enough to do that for more than a few minutes.
Being as quiet as I can, I unplug the lamp from the bedside and carry it with me to stand at the side of the bathroom door, taking off the shade and placing it on the ground. With my heart pounding, I transfer the knife that I don’t want to lose into my left hand and grasp the lamp with my right, thankful it’s one of those candlestick ones that are light without the thick base.
As I stand there, I listen to the woman talking on the phone—not sounding panicked but normal—and as I listen harder, I swear it sounds as if she’s talking to a child, trying to encourage them to do something. How she can have a conversation while a woman she attacked is dying a room away is something I just do not understand.
“A… April.” My eyes widen and fly to the bed, seeing Shell reach out her hand to me, and I shake my head. “Ap—” She coughs, and red splatters across the cream duvet and floor. The woman talking inside the bathroom stops, then I hear a thunk and the sound of swishing fabric right before the bathroom door is flung open, and she steps out wearing some strange white cloth covering her from head to toe. I don’t hesitate to swing out the lamp in my hand, but I don’t get it high enough, so I end up hitting her in the stomach and knocking her back into the bathroom a step. Her eyes widen, then she rights herself and rushes me.
I try to swing the lamp again, but this time she’s prepared and able to grab hold of the base, tugging it away from me. Letting go so she’s unable to drag me into her, I transfer the knife to my right hand and lift it.
“Don’t come any closer,” I pant, and her eyes fill with hatred.
“I knew I should have just killed you.” She lifts the lamp over her head and comes at me on a scream, since I’m just outside the doorway of the bathroom, I step to the side before she can hit me, and she ends up stumbling into the room, catching herself on the edge of the bed. With her back to me, I kick out at her, trying to push her over, but it doesn’t work, and I’m unprepared for her to spin around with the lamp and knock the knife out of my hand.