PROLOGUE

The city bus hummed and vibrated under Emily Ross's seat, a lulling counterpoint to the pounding of her heart. She clutched the playbill in her hand, smoothing the creases absently as she replayed the night's performance in her head. Even though her role was small, her moment—the pivotal scene where she, as the unsuspecting maid, had strangled a crooked banker to death—had elicited gasps from the audience. It was a small role, but she had killed it. Literally.

She'd never admit it to anyone, but she'd cried a bit backstage afterward. Which was silly, really; the play was just shy of two hours and her part consisted of a total of four minutes and seven seconds. But it was a role she was proud of and it had made her even more confident about landing future roles in the local theater scene.

As the bus trudged through the city streets, Emily closed her eyes, feeling the thrill of the staged murder once more. The applause still echoed in her ears, each cheer a sweet validation of her burgeoning talent. Her cheeks burned with residual stage makeup and success and her stomach was knotted in anticipation of what doors this role might open.

The sound of the bus's brakes broke her out of her reverie. Emily's eyes snapped open. With a jolt, she gathered her things and shuffled towards the door. A gust of cool air welcomed her as she disembarked, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

She zipped up her jacket against the chill of the night, the peaceful quiet of the neighborhood wrapping around her like a well-deserved hug. It was nearing midnight on a Thursday, so her block was quiet, though she knew the bars and clubs about a mile away would be fully alive. She'd been invited out to one of the bars with a few castmates after her performance, but she'd declined. She'd done a bit too much drinking during her college days and knew she had issues when it came to cutting herself off. And on a night where she wanted to celebrate her little victory, a bar was probably the absolute worst place for her.

As she made her way to her apartment, she started to realize that the streets were maybe too quiet. She suddenly wanted very badly to get inside.

Then her phone buzzed—a jolt of reality in the tranquil night. She fished it out of her pocket, the screen illuminating her face in a pale glow. The message from her friend and fellow cast member popped up: "You KILLED it tonight!" A grin spread across Emily's face, her heart swelling with pride. She typed back a quick thank you, punctuating it with a smiling emoticon.

She slipped her phone back into her pocket as her breath misted in front of her. Fall had officially arrived weeks ago, and this early November chill had a bite to it. She scrunched up her coat tighter around her and walked briskly to her building.

When she arrived, she pushed through the front door and welcomed the rather stagnant warmth of the place. Her building was an old one with creaky bones, nestled in the heart of a Richmond neighborhood that had seen better days. The lobby was dimly lit, the single bulb casting long shadows across the faded tiles. It was nearly midnight, and the stillness of the night seemed to have seeped into the very walls. Emily took the elevator up to the second floor, navigated the familiar path to her door, and stepped inside.

She sighed and headed directly to the kitchen, clicking on the entryway lamp as she passed. The walls of her apartment were adorned with framed playbills and posters from shows she'd been part of, each a badge of honor. A secondhand sofa, boasting a colorful throw, beckoned invitingly while bookshelves overflowed with well-thumbed scripts and novels. It wasn't much, but it was hers.

As she made her way towards the bedroom, the weight of her performance shed from her shoulders like a heavy cloak. But then, a prickling sensation crept up her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck rising in silent alarm. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to find someone there.

Nothing. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a siren wailing through the city streets.

"Get a grip, Em," she muttered to herself, trying to shake off the feeling. She wondered if some of the adrenaline of the performance was still bouncing around inside of her. Surely that's all it was.

But the unease coiled tighter within her, a whispering dread that refused to be ignored. With each step towards her room, the sensation grew until it was a tangible pressure against her skin, as if eyes were tracking her every move.

She paused at the threshold of her bedroom, her hand hovering over the light switch. The room beyond was cloaked in shadows; the moonlight filtering in through the curtains cast a pale glow. Emily's breath hitched, and for a moment, she stood frozen, caught between the urge to flee and rationality. She flicked the switch, banishing the darkness.

She walked into the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face; the remnants of stage foundation swirled down the drain in a diluted spiral of beige. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes sparkled with the night's excitement, even as she scrubbed away the persona she'd adopted for the performance. Methodically, she wiped at the mascara, peeling back the layers of the fictional character.

The small bathroom, with its chipped tiles and incessant drip from the faucet, seemed to suggest a nice, warm bath. And maybe she would indulge. But first, she needed a bite to eat. She took one last look at her face in the mirror, wanting to make sure she'd gotten all the makeup off. Sometimes, eyeliner could be especially sneaky.

Just before she turned, a shadow flitted across the corner of the mirror, subtle but undeniable. Her heart stuttered, the joyous fluttering replaced by a leaden thrum of dread. The room felt suddenly colder, the air thicker. She straightened up, eyes wide, scanning the reflection for confirmation of her fear.

There he was—materializing like a specter from the dimly lit hallway behind her. A man, his features obscured by the darkness, stood motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Fight or flight instincts screamed through her heart and mind, her body tensing for either. She spun around, terror seizing her throat as a scream clawed its way to her lips. But before the sound could erupt, he was upon her—an avalanche of malice in human form.

His hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the cry that might have saved her. The world narrowed to the struggle, his breath hot against her skin, the weight of him pressing her down to the floor.

And then his fists came raining down. She felt the first three or four blows, but after that, everything went numb. In that final, frenzied instant before consciousness slipped away, Emily's thoughts scattered. Distantly, she thought she heard applause as, at the same time, her attacker's hands found her throat and began to squeeze.