Chapter 8. Sorry

Rae:

The knock comes again. Louder this time. I jump.

Startled. Frightened. My heart pounds, hammering against my ribcage, and I stare at the phone in my hand, again, for the third time, its screen mocking me with its empty silence. No other text. No explanation. No escape.

Shadows stretch across the walls as the dying light outside fades, and the hum of the refrigerator seems deafening. My throat is dry, each swallow like sandpaper. Somewhere outside, the wind howls, scraping against the windowpanes, but it’s drowned out by the thunderous drumming of my heartbeat.

Quietly, on my toes, I stand, dust invisible dust from my short shorts, and move toward the kitchen. Every step feels like a betrayal to the silence, the wooden floor creaking under my weight. I reach for the knife—the same one I’ve always clutched in nightmares. But this isn’t a dream. This isn’t a memory twisting in my sleep. Not for revenge. Not for the blood of mother, sister, or even Fedricko.