Chapter 3: Thirty-Five Deaths

My mind went blank, my heart slamming so hard in my chest I could barely think. The chill from the window felt sharper, the air heavy with static.

A moment later, the bathroom surveillance feed went black—just a sudden, total darkness.

My heart lurched into my throat.

Could it be… I’d been found out?

A cold sweat prickled my skin, the apartment suddenly colder, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. I stared at the blank screen, barely breathing, waiting for the next move.

03

Knock, knock, knock.

Not long after, there was a knock at my door—three sharp raps that made me freeze in place.

I held my breath, crept over, and peeked through the peephole.

It was Savannah.

She stood outside, face expressionless, shoulders squared. As if she sensed me watching, she leaned in close—so close the peephole filled with her bloodshot eye, unblinking.

"Shit!" I nearly gasped, covering my mouth with my hand, my heart jackhammering against my ribs.

Cold sweat trickled down my spine, soaking my T-shirt. My fingers trembled.

BAM! BAM! BAM!!!

The knocking escalated, now a pounding that made the door shake and me jump with every blow.

If I kept pretending I wasn’t home, she’d get even more suspicious.

I darted to the kitchen, grabbed my old Henckels steak knife from the block, and hid it behind my back. The kitchen was cluttered, the cheap linoleum sticky under my bare feet.

"Yeah? Who’s there?" I forced my voice to sound groggy, like I’d just rolled out of bed, and cracked the door open a sliver.

Savannah stood there with a stiff, unsettling smile that made my skin crawl. Her hand rested on the door frame, nails tapping a nervous rhythm on the chipped paint.