CHAPTER 50 HANNAH

50

Hannah

MALCOLM'S LOUD CRY HAD ceased nearly as abruptly as it started, and the silence that followed frightened Hannah more than his terror-filled shriek had. Malcolm went completely quiet, his body was still. The only sounds in the old house were Hannah's breathing, the buzz of flies, and the rustle of crows as they shifted around that far room from one perch to another, as if trying to get a better view of the boy below.

Had something hurt him?

Did he pass out?

Was he …

She hoped to God he was. Hannah had never wished death on anyone, but after what he did to Danny … six other girls … he deserved the worst. He deserved to die as painfully as possible.

Hannah tried to pull free of the tape, but her hands didn't budge. Malcolm had not only secured her to the table leg but wrapped the tape around a thick support brace on the underside of the table near the top. Between both, there was no play. She tried to twist around, use her legs as leverage, but she couldn't loosen it.

In the other room, flies buzzed, crows shuffled, and Malcolm didn't move.

With the bed frame broken, the mattress was resting at an odd angle. The foot of the bed was touching the ground while the back side near the headboard was at least two feet off the ground. With Malcolm sprawled out on top, it almost appeared like the bed was displaying him. Holding him with the icy tree limb at his side, the fingers of his left hand within inches of that. For some reason, Hannah was grateful he wasn't actually touching that branch. She knew that was silly—it was a branch—but it shouldn't be covered in ice and frost, and from where she sat on the floor, those things looked more like some slowly spreading infection than something simply cold. And it was spreading, right? That wasn't her imagination. More of the branch was covered in that ice than only a few minutes ago, the temperature in the hallway had dropped as cold seeped from that room, and—

Malcolm's foot twitched.

Hannah jerked her wrists with enough force to drag the heavy table nearly an inch across the floor.

She screamed behind her gag, choked, swallowed more of the oil and grime, then screamed again. She screamed with so much force the back of her throat felt like it tore open.

Malcolm moved again. This time, it wasn't just his foot, but his entire left leg that moved, then his other leg. He let out a soft moan, slowly rocked back and forth, and glanced around as if seeing that room for the first time.

When Malcolm reached for the branch, no doubt hoping to use it as leverage to hoist himself into a sitting position, Hannah screamed again.

She didn't know why—couldn't begin to explain it—but she knew he shouldn't touch that branch. Nobody should. Not the birds. Not the flies. Not anything, and certainly not Malcolm, because that would lead to something far worse than the monster that had killed Danny and brought her here. If he heard her, he gave no indication. His fingers wrapped around bark just above the place where it punctured the mattress, and he pulled himself up.

Malcolm jerked his hand away as if he'd been burned, studied his palm for a second, then climbed off the bed and stood on wobbly legs for a long moment before turning toward her and coming back down the hallway.

Backlit by the room, the sun streaming in from the hole in the ceiling, Hannah had trouble making him out as he shuffled toward her. He was nothing but a dark shadow surrounded by blotches of light as her eyes fought to adjust to the gloom after staring into that bright room. It wasn't until he was nearly on top of her that he came into focus, and the moment he did, Hannah knew something was terribly wrong. His pupils were both dilated, the left more so than the right, like black stains on the irises. His skin was covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, and just below his left temple was a small patch of frost.

When Hannah saw that, her gaze immediately jumped to the hand that had touched the branch, and that was even worse. Malcolm's fingers, his palm, were white. Not just pale, but white . Not because the blood was gone, but because his hand was layered in frost, too. He wore it like a glove, and Hannah could clearly see the spot on his wrist where it stopped, just below the base of his palm.

Malcolm knelt down next to her, close enough for her to smell what could only be described as rot on his breath, like something had died inside him. He licked his lips, then reached for the table leg where her wrists were taped. He ran his fingers over several deep gouges and scratches, no doubt left by the girls who preceded her. "I never meant to bring you here," he said in a voice that held a little more gravel than his own. "I wanted something different for you. You're not like the others. I had— have —feelings for you. They meant nothing. But you, you're special. I always thought so. That's what makes this so hard."

Hannah jerked at her bindings, little good that did.

Malcolm reached into his back pocket and retrieved the screwdriver. Rolled it between icy fingers. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fuck you first, use you in ways you couldn't possibly imagine in your worst nightmares. You'll beg me to kill you. But I won't at first. I'll keep you alive for a few days, maybe a week, then I'll bash your pretty skull in with a rock and toss whatever is left of you down into the gully on the back side of this house. Maybe in one of the streams or rivers, I haven't decided yet. Those are facts; they just haven't happened yet. I know you think you can talk your way out of it or maybe get away—girls like you always do—but none ever has. Well, that's not exactly true. I did let one live … she was special, too. Different from you, but special in her own way." He shook his head. "Too different, I think. That's why I was able to trust her. You're special, but not like her. You're not someone I can trust."

Hannah jerked her head up and down, muttered his name from behind the gag. She tried to tell him he could trust her, but nothing came out but a garbled mess.

"How special are you, Hannah?" There was a calmness to his voice that had no business being there. He didn't see her as a person, only an obstacle. A threat to be erased. The frost on the side of his head glistened in the dim light. Malcolm scratched it with the tip of his finger, and that fingertip came away moist. He added softly, "Do you want to hear the single scenario where you get to live?"