The computer was a bust.
Even if someone had read her message—if it even sent—she hadn’t known the address.
No street name. No house number. Just trees. Just nowhere.
It was a long shot.
It was always a long shot.
Okay. She couldn’t stay. That much was clear.
She was not sleeping in a house with three corpses.
One of whom thought they were dating.
She moved to the window.
Outside was nearly pitch black. The trees were just shadows stacked on shadows.
No street lamps. No landmarks. Just cold and dark and away.
If she left now, she’d have the cover of night. That was something.
And even if she didn’t make it…
Better dead by weather than another meal with the dead.
She grabbed another hoodie from her bag, pulled it over her head, then zipped her jacket tight.
Stuffed a granola bar into her pocket. Steeled herself.
Every creak on the staircase felt like a foghorn.
Each footstep was deliberate, slow, painfully slow—like walking on glass and trying not to bleed.
No doors opened. No voices called her name.
She reached the front door.
She turned the knob.
She slipped out into the night.
And the motion-activated floodlights snapped on.
She flinched.
A mechanical whir. Blinding white light. Everything exposed.
She looked up, instinctively—and froze.
One of the upstairs windows lit up.
A silhouette stood there. Still. Watching.
Her heart seized.
She turned to run—barely thinking, just move—but her foot caught on something.
A root. A rock. Or maybe just her own adrenaline.
She went down hard.
Her palms scraped raw. Her knee slammed into the ground.
Pain shot up her leg. Her ankle twisted sharp and wrong—something popped.
The phone flew from her grip and cracked against a stone with a brittle, final snap.
She scrambled toward it. Grabbed it. Turned it over.
The screen was spiderwebbed. Black. Dead.
“Shit,” she hissed. “Shit, shit, shit—”
No signal. No power. No nothing.
Just a cold rectangle of plastic and glass that might as well have been a goddamn coaster.
She stared at it for a second longer than she should have—like it might turn back on out of pity.
Then she shoved it into her pocket.
Because denial was easier than accepting what that meant.
She pushed herself upright.
Weight on her foot sent lightning up her leg. She bit down a cry.
Okay. Limping. Fine. Still moving.
She turned back to the trees.
Behind her, the house loomed. Still lit. Still watching.
She sprinted for the trees, stumbling over roots and stones, branches whipping her face.
Behind her, the light still blazed, bathing the yard in awful artificial day.
The silhouette didn’t move.
But she felt it watching.
She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
An hour passed—maybe more. She couldn’t tell.
Just darkness and her own ragged breath.
Her legs ached. Her hands were numb.
Her hoodie was damp from brush and sweat and panic.
She kept looking over her shoulder, half-expecting Edgar to be there.
Smiling. Patient. Walking. Not even trying to run.
That was worse somehow.
But he didn’t come.
She was alone. Cold. Terrified.
Her teeth were chattering. Her lips felt dry and cracked.
Finally she came upon a house.
She limped through brush and bramble and bone-deep silence until—finally—a house.
She could have cried.
Dark windows. Sloped roof. A porch light off. Still, a house.
She didn’t recognize it. Didn’t think. Couldn’t.
Her legs moved on autopilot, dragging her up the steps.
She banged on the door. Hard. Both fists.
“Please—hello? Anyone? Please help—”
The door creaked open.
Warm light spilled out. Soft. Familiar.
And standing in the frame—
Edgar.
Still in his sweater. Still smiling.
Relieved.
“It’s freezing out here,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s not safe to be out this late.”
Nicole stood frozen.
Mouth open. Words gone.
She looked past him into the house.
The green mug was still on the table.