Page 126 of The Sister's Curse
“Tall. Brown hair.”
That could be anyone. But the skin on the nape of my neck prickled. I pulled up a picture of the interdepartmental softball team on my phone and showed it to Drema. “Was this him?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally.”
I exhaled. I looked at Monica. “That’s Fred Jasper.”
“But…Fred is dead.”
My hand slid up into my hairline. “Fuck. How did he survive that car accident?”
“Maybe…What if…what if he escaped somehow? What if that was the last straw…he finally snapped and went after the Kings?”
“What if…he finally snapped…and faked his own death?”
Monica looked at me like I was batshit.
“I mean…he’d know how to do it,” I insisted. “What if he did it so he could get his revenge and disappear into the night?”
“That sounds fabulous to me,” Drema blurted.
I turned to Drema. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, and leave these things here. This is an active crime scene, and you need to be someplace safe.”
Drema nodded. “Of course, of course.” She lifted her hands and backed out of the house.
Monica and I swept the house quickly. I took the upstairs, found no one, and descended to the first floor just in time to see Monica open the basement door from the kitchen. She took one step on the stairs, and then her shriek was obliterated by a deafening crash.
I lurched to the doorway and flipped on the light. “Monica!”
The top steps had caved in, the treads having been neatly cut away under the carpet. Beneath the stairs, Monica sprawled on a plywood board studded with railroad spikes.
Several facts converged on me at once.
Jeff knew we had been here.
He had booby-trapped the house.
And I had to get help for Monica.
I grasped the banister and scrambled awkwardly down to the floor, avoiding the mess Monica had fallen into. There was blood, a lot of it.
I stared down at Monica. She’d landed on several spikes; one was in her arm, one in her shoulder. Another railroad spike had pierced her thigh, and her leg was twisted under her at an unnatural angle.
She was pale and sweating. She should be swearing, but she wasn’t. That was a bad sign.
“Hey, Monica, stay with me.”
She rolled her eyes toward me. “I fucked up.”
I grabbed her radio and called for help. Blood was spurting out like in a horror film. The spike in her thigh must’ve cut her femoral artery. She could bleed out in minutes.
Drema shouted at the doorway. “What happened? I heard screaming—”
“Don’t come down here!” I shouted.
