CHAPTER 42 HANNAH

42

Hannah

THERE WERE FRESH FOOTPRINTS in the thick dust covering the hallway floor.

Not shoe prints, but bare feet.

Small, about the same size as Hannah's.

Probably female.

Malcolm trained the flashlight beam on them, traced them with the light. They seemed to start somewhere deep in the house, cross the very spot where she and Malcolm were in the hallway, then continue through the living room and out the front door. A single set of tracks left by someone leaving, no indication of them entering the house unless they'd come through a window or something in the back.

Malcolm worked the light in the opposite direction, traced the prints back from the front door, and lost them in the gloom at the far end of the hall. The same direction the sound had come from. In his other hand, he rolled the screwdriver in his grip, anxiously twisted it, faster and faster. Behind his eyes, the gears were turning.

Whatever this was, he hadn't expected it.

"Somebody help me!" Hannah shrieked. "Somebody!" She yelled so loud the words seemed to tear her vocal cords, like a speaker blowing out.

Malcolm punched her.

Not a slap like before, but he tightened his grip around the screwdriver and drove his fist hard into the side of her chin. Her jaw cracked shut and caught the corner of her tongue between her teeth, and when she opened her mouth to cry out from the pain, he shoved the rag in, nearly choked her, and quickly replaced the tape.

Warm blood filled her mouth, and she had no choice but to swallow it as he glared at her, his face bright red, his skin writhing even worse than before, as if she'd angered the flies right along with him. "You dumb bitch. It's like you want to get hurt. Why'd you make me do that?"

His voice was low, barely a whisper, and he only looked at her for a second before turning his attention back down the hall. "There's nobody here. We don't even know these tracks are from today."

When he said that last part, Hannah wasn't sure if he was talking to her or trying to convince himself. She barely had time to process that when he added, "She didn't go down there, did she?"

Those words slipped from him so quietly, Hannah wasn't sure he'd actually meant to say them aloud. Like they were simply a thought that escaped.

You're number seven, Hannah. You're the seventh girl I've brought out here.

She saw the marks on the table leg then, hadn't noticed them before. Dried adhesive, probably from more duct tape. Scratches in the wood finish, maybe from zip ties.

At one point, he'd secured all his victims to the same spot where he had her now.

Hannah twisted her face back to Malcolm. The movement beneath his skin had stopped. His blank stare might have been carved in stone as he slowly rose and peered down the hallway. He rolled the screwdriver in his palm several times, switching between an overhand and underhand grip, before settling on overhand. "Wait here," he told her, as if she could get up and leave whenever she wanted. Then he started down the hall, following the tracks deep into the dark.