“Justice,” is his only reply and his clamps his hand over my mouth and twists my hands behind my back. He’s prepared, shoving a gag between my teeth and a blindfold over my eyes. “Keep quiet and I’ll leave your mama and that little girl up in the house alone.”
My mother is just over at Anita’s near the entrance of the property. He heard her announce she and Richard would take care of Sibley. The last thing I want is for him to get near them, so I cooperate, thinking once I’m outside I’ll make a break for it.
On the gravel path I make my move, kicking him in the shin and yanking off the blindfold while I run.
“Fuck,” he mutters, racing after me. I dart between campers, unable to call out. As much as I want to bang into the trailers and wake someone, I know it’s foolish. Everyone that lives here is old. If Avery wants to hurt me, I can’t imagine what he’d do to them.
I see a break in the campers and run toward the dock and the water. I don’t even know where I’m going—I’m just looking to pull him away from Anita’s house and my mother—away from this monster and whatever he has planned. In a moment of panic, I squeeze between the railings and jump down to the sand below, hiding under the boardwalk. His footsteps echo overhead.
“You think I’m kidding, Summer Barnes? That I’ll leave your mother and that baby up there? You think I’m not taking a sacrifice from your family tree?”
His footsteps still, although I can hear his heavy breathing. The water laps on the shore and I crouch, clinging to a post. I think maybe he’s gone and I reach in my dress pocket. It’s why I bought this specific dress. I still have my phone. I’m scared he’ll see the light. Scared he’ll hear me call for help.
I press the button to turn it on. The light shines, muted through the thin, cotton fabric. Blindly, I press what I hope is the phone app. I’m focused, too focused, because I don’t realize the soft thud in the sand is Avery behind me. Not until it’s too late.
“Gotcha,” he says, grabbing my arms. The jerking motion forces my phone to tumble into the soft, wet sand. “Your mother got away once, Summer. It won’t be the same for you.”
This time he binds my hands with a plastic cord. Then he pulls off the grungy black hat he’s always wearing and eases it over my head, tugging it past my eyes. I gasp when he cinches the cord again, tight, cutting into my wrists. He pushes me forward and we move away from the water’s edge. I don’t have any idea where to expect we’re going but he doesn’t take me far. I can still faintly hear the waterway but the scent is thick with brine. We stop abruptly, his motions harsh and jerky, and I hear the familiar sound of rusted, stretching, coil springs. I’m pushed up two stairs, tripping over the last, and his grip is the only thing that keeps me from falling. Inside, the coils snap back with a sharp groan and the door slams. Although he stopped me from crashing moments ago, Avery’s strong hand pushes me to the floor and I land with an awkward thud, not against a hard surface, but something soft. Something that reacts with a muffled cry.
Fear trembles through me as I realize I’m not the only one Avery’s taken.
I scramble to my side and feel nauseous when he touches my body, shifting me into a sitting position. My arm rests against the other person. The room is pitch black with the beanie over my eyes, but as soon as my back is against a solid surface he yanks it off. I blink, acclimating. We’re in a camper, I knew that, but the windows are covered, although faint morning light filters through the edges. I glance next to me and see Shay’s tear-stained face along with her dirty, torn shirt and bare feet.
Oh god.
Avery moves in front of us, tugging the cap back over his head, his eyes wild in the lamplight. A weird smile tugs at his mouth.
“Have you figured it out?” he asks. “I worried I was being too vague, but the best serial killers leave obscure notes. Son of Sam, BTK, Green River Killer…My grandfather probably couldn’t read or write himself, which is why he didn’t leave a trail, but who says I can’t add my own twist? I mean, I already am.”
He stares at us both for a moment before standing and going to a bag on the little table. Avery begins pulling things out of the bag. What, I can’t see, but they sound heavy when he sets them on the table. The trailer is tiny—half the size of mine, and there’s zero chance of getting out of here unless we overpower him or someone finds us. Who would find us? How? There are over a hundred trailers packed in this park. Where would they even start.
I look over at Shay, who’s quiet—her eyes glassy. We’re pushed against a closed pull-out bed. I press my shoulder against hers just to feel something and to let her know she’s not alone. We’re not alone, although with each passing second, it’s obvious we’re in the hands of a madman.
I’ve read all my mother’s books. All the specialists. The FBI and the police reports. One thing comes to mind. These killers de-personalize you. They don’t want you real. I need to make us real to Avery—get him to snap out of whatever fantasy he’s in. Taking a deep, stifled breath, I call his name beneath the gag. Over and over until he looks up from his task.
He glances up, annoyed, but I also kick my foot, slamming into the chrome leg. Shay watches wide-eyed, shaking her head for me to stop. Avery stops what he’s doing and bends down, yanking the gag out of my mouth. His face is close to mine—all traces of the handsome, charming, beach bum gone. I spot something in his hand. A knife. “What?”
I force myself not to look at the blade or think about the scar on my mother’s chest from her own run-in with Gaskins. “Tell me more about your grandfather.”
He frowns. “Gaskins? You’ve studied him. There’s nothing I know that you don’t.”
He starts to plug my mouth again but I whisper, “Wait! Wait. If you’re going to kill us, at least tell us why.”
He sighs. “I didn’t know Gaskins was my grandfather until I read your mother’s book. It’s the big, dark, family secret. I recognized one of the names in the book as my mom’s cousin. I went to the records department and did my own research.”
“So, no one ever mentioned it?”
“Nope. Not once. Even when I confronted my mom, she refused to talk about it.” He rubs his forehead. “Not that I blame them, but I’ve always felt this tug—this lure of darkness. I’ve always read these books and watched documentaries. I’ve felt a kindredness to the killers. Their bloodlust, but mostly just the anger.”
“You’ve never seemed angry to me. I’ve watched you with people at the Camp or down on the beach. You’ve got friends.”
He scoffs. “Whatever. I know I’m a loser. More than a loser. I’m pathetic.” His eyes narrow at me. “I’m sure your boyfriends told you.”
“They like you,” I lie. “Justin told me you were a great skater.”
His face lights up for a moment before turning dark again. He holds up the blade and points it at me. “See, this is why my grandfather hated women. You’re all nothing but liars and whores.”
“Hey, that’s not cool. I’m neither.”