Page 98 of Buried in the Woods Below

The hunting knife is gone.

A lump forms in my throat. Did Olivia take it?

Or did someone else?

I creep into the pitch-black hallway, a bass pulsing in my skull, my bare feet sweating against the cold hardwood. I pause at the foot of the staircase, listening for movement.

But all I hear are the trees.

A scent lingers in the air. Familiar. Wrong.

I ease up the stairs and reach the landing. Down the hall, the twins’ door swings gently, tapping the frame. Click. Click. Click.

I tiptoe toward their room. A cold, wet breeze brushes my skin. The bedroom window is open.

Now I recognize the scent.

Blood.

I force myself forward into the room, squinting through the dim light. Moonlight spills through the window. My knees buckle when I see it.

Emma.

Lying in bed.

A knife buried deep in her chest.

Her sister lies beside her.

Still. Lifeless. Drenched in crimson.

Chapter 45

I crawl to the bed, in disbelief at what I’m seeing. My fingers tremble as they press against cool skin, searching, praying for a pulse.

Stillness. It’s hopeless. The girls are gone.

A choked noise limps from my throat, something between a sob and a gasp. Emma and Penelope lie tangled in blood-soaked fabric, their tiny bodies riddled with deep, ragged wounds. Pajamas sticky. Limbs twisted unnaturally. Their dark hair, once soft, brushed and braided with care, is now matted, clumped, ruined.

The smell. Like a storm in the air. Sweat. Something else. Something I can’t name, something that makes my stomach lurch violently. A scream builds in my chest. I press my hand over my mouth to stop it.

But I’m too scared to scream. Too scared of who or what it will conjure. A sob blooms inside me anyway. A sharp, stifled noise that barely escapes my lips. My vision warps, darkens at the edges. They were just alive. Hours ago, they were alive.

Penelope and her mischievous grin. Emma and her curious eyes. Little hands clasping their antique dolls. The ones that now lie discarded, their glass eyes staring, blind and empty.

My chest crashes, my body shaking so hard it hurts. I reach for my phone to dial 911. Shit. I left it downstairs. Then I see it, again.

The hunting knife.

Wedged in Emma’s chest, the hilt jutting out at an unnatural angle.

My knife.

My heart stops, and a slow, creeping horror slithers up my spine. Someone was in my room. I reach for the handle, then stop midair. My fingers curl inward.

Olivia.

No, it’s impossible. She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Then where is she?