Page 100 of The Woman in the Hollow
She was right there, running to the haunted house.
Scared, traumatized once again, a little bloody. But okay.
Domenico and I had no idea what we were walking into, but we charged into the haunted house. And as the light flicked on, illuminating all the dark corners and removing the protection of blackness, it wasn’t hard to see what had Hazel running for her life.
The place was fucking painted in blood, the gore splashed up on the walls, over the decor, and pooling around on the floor near our feet as we moved closer to the scene in the last half of the haunted house.
One man lay on the ground, unmoving. Another man sat on top of him, still ripping a pocket knife out of the body below him.
Even with the movement, blood was flung everywhere, splattering across the face of one of those creepy antique dolls that gave even me the heebie-jeebies.
It was even creepier now, dripping actual blood over its lily-white skin, making it look all the more grotesque.
My gaze slid back down to the guy all in black with black-and-white face makeup.
The knife was still in his hand, the entire thing soaked in blood, dripping at a lazy pace onto the floor.
The guy himself was panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
And it was no wonder.
The body under him? He’d been stabbed dozens of times.
Those eyes stared unblinking up at the ceiling out from an all-too-familiar face.
A movement at my side had me looking over at Dom, who nodded to the side.
Turning, I saw Hazel standing there, frozen in place.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
There was no protecting her from this, no trying to paint over the gritty reality of my life and my profession when it was spread out before her in vivid detail.
I watched, though, as her shock seemed to morph into something else. Something more calm, more accepting?
No.
That couldn’t be it.
“Ant,” she said, her voice low, but the kid heard it, his head whipping up. “You saved me,” she said. “I thought it might be you, but you saved me.”
The kid moved slowly, stretching up to his feet with the predatory grace of a cat, and turned to face Hazel.
“You did good,” he said, giving her a nod. “But you’re bleeding,” he added, taking a step toward her.
“Don’t touch her,” I snapped, moving closer.
His gaze slid up from Hazel’s bloody neck to me.
His hands spread, the knife pressed to his palm with just the pressure of his thumb.
“I wouldn’t hurt her. I know she’s yours.”
“And how would you know that?” I asked.
To that, a smirk twisted up on his features, made almost menacing by the face paint. “Well, I just meant that she worked here, for you. But it’s good information to clock away that she’s yours-yours.”
“Why are you storing anything away?” Domenico asked, grabbing the kid’s wrist hard enough that it had to hurt, but Ant didn’t even flinch. Dom took the knife, dropping it down onto the body.
