Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher (For Me 2)

The front door was locked, but that didn’t matter.

He had his own key.

The bedroom door squeaked open. More darkness. And the scent of death. Lauren’s breath was coming out harder now as she fumbled with the light. When it was on, she saw her room.

The mattress was gone, just as Anthony had said. The sheets, the covers—everything was gone from the bed. There were bloodstains on the floor. Spatter on the walls.

Karen’s blood.

Anthony swore behind her.

She wanted to do more than swear. “He’s burning in hell.” Walker had gotten exactly what he deserved.

Karen hadn’t, though. She’d never deserved this.

Lauren tore her gaze off the bed and hurried to her closet.

The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet.

Lauren…

The whisper seemed to be in the air, but it was just a memory. Her memory. It had never been Karen’s voice. It had been Walker, trying to lure her to the spot he wanted her. The perfect kill.

But she’d gotten away.

She was nearly at the closet. When she’d bought the house, she’d fallen in love with the closet. Walk-in heaven. A paradise for her shoes.

Now she just wanted her necklace.

Lauren opened the closet door.

She lost her breath. The closet had been trashed. Boxes were everywhere. Her clothes slashed. “Anthony…”

He was already there. Pulling her against him. Holding her tight.

“It wasn’t like this before.” The house hadn’t been ransacked by Walker. Paul had told her he’d checked the house.

Where’s my jewelry box?

She heard the creak of wood.

Only the sound hadn’t come from their steps.

It had come from outside the bedroom.

She knew the nightmare was happening again.

Lauren…

Before they could leap for the bedroom door, the light went out, thrusting them into darkness.

This time, Lauren didn’t imagine what she heard…

Laughter.

Come out, come out…I’m waiting for you.

He’d prepared so well. They were going to be such easy prey.

It had been easy enough to throw the breaker switch and plunge the house into darkness. He liked to hunt in the dark. He’d spent so many nights in the darkness of the swamp. First as a child, wandering deep and far to get away from the prying eyes of his family. Then, later, with Jon on their hunts.

Unlike others, his night vision was strong. So very strong.

Sometimes, he even let his prey run from him in the swamp. He hunted on the darkest nights, when the moon was gone, when the stars were clouded. He could see his prey easily in the swamp. See the shadows as they fled.

He would see Lauren and her marshal just as easily in the darkened house. Shadows that would be targeted.

He lifted his weapon. It wasn’t his weapon of choice—he always preferred the intimate touch of a knife. Tonight, a gun would have to get the job done.

Brutal. Cold.

I like the knife better.

The knife let him feel his victim’s pain. It cut right through the skin. So gentle. So much better than the brutality of the gun.

He’d lured his prey just where he wanted them. Made the wreckage of the closet to pull them in even deeper, so he’d have the chance to get to the breaker box.

And now…

Come out, come out…

The marshal would be first. He knew it. He’d wait for the marshal’s shadow, wait to hear the telltale creak of wood, then he’d shoot. When he went down, Lauren would be desperate. She’d try to save the marshal, because she cared for him. She’d pull him back into the bedroom.

His leg brushed against the gas container at his feet. He was counting on Lauren saving her marshal.

Lauren was always trying to save the world.

It was time for her to watch the world burn away.

Then he heard it. The faint creak of the wooden floor. Then the dark bulk of a body, trying to move from the room.

Fabric whispered. Another soft creak.

He stood there in the darkness. Waiting. Needing the marshal to come just a bit closer.

Light. Fucking light.

The marshal had a flashlight in his hand, and he was shining it right at him.

Fuck.

He fired. The bullet missed the marshal, hitting right above him on the wall, but it made the marshal duck back.

He fired again. Again.

He heard the thud of his bullets and—was that Ross’s groan?

Hurry, have to hurry.

He grabbed the gas can. Poured it down the hallway. Tossed the can toward Lauren’s room.

He jumped back, trying to put distance between himself and the fire that was about to come.

His smile stretched as he grabbed for the matches and lit the whole damn place up.

Only…gasoline was on him, too, on his fingers, and he screamed when his hand caught fire.

The whoosh of sound that came from the sudden eruption of flames—the giant whoosh that rocked the house and sent him flying back—drowned out his cry.

Blood dripped down Anthony’s arm as he grabbed Lauren and pulled her into the bedroom. The flames were white-hot, scorching and destructive as they moved toward him.

He and Lauren hit the floor. The fire was in the doorway, blocking them, burning red and gold as it lit up the room.

The bastard had followed them to the house, and he was trying to make sure they never got out again.

Think again, ass**le.

Smoke was filling the room fast. The flames spreading too rapidly. Gasoline. He’d caught the scent of gasoline just in time to jerk Lauren to safety.

Gasoline would burn fast, especially when the freak had used a whole damn can to drench the place.

“The window!” he barked. There was no way they were getting through those flames. They wouldn’t get to the killer that way, but at least they could escape.

Lauren pulled away from him. She ran not to the window, but to the closet.

“Lauren!”

The smoke was getting too thick. They needed fresh air.

He raced to the window. Shoved the curtains out of his way and realized—

I’m a perfect target. Standing there, silhouetted by the flames, he would be easy to take out. The killer had made it so they only had one way to freedom. If he was waiting out there now, he could make sure both Anthony and Lauren died.

No choice.

Anthony yanked on the window. Only it didn’t open. He yanked again, harder.

Then his fingers found the nails.

The killer had nailed the window shut.

Screw that. There was still an easy way to get that window open.

He used his gun to break the glass. It rained down on him, the ground, and sweet, clean air drifted inside.