The Prey by Allison Brennan Page B

aren’t you?”
    “No!”
    Slap!
    “Don’t lie to me!”
    “I’m not!” Sobs. More sobs. All girls did was cry. Especially his mother. She always cried and his father always gave in. Stupid!
    He hated her.
    “You will NOT get a job. We don’t need it. I will provide. I will always provide for you. You believe me, don’t you? Don’t you?”
    “Y-Y-Yes, I—I’m so sorry, I don’t want to go to work. You are a wonderful father and husband. I love you so much.” She sat sobbing on the floor, repeating garbage over and over.
    “Oh, honey.”
    As he watched from the closet, he saw his father’s rage disappear as he picked his mother up off the carpet and hugged her.
    “I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I know you would never cheat on me. I know you love me.”
    “I do love you. I love you,” she sobbed, clinging to him.
    They’d made love on the bed as he watched from the closet. He’d heard about sex, but he’d never known exactly what it meant.
    He did now.
    At first he thought his father was going to kill his mother. She was grunting and crying and had this high-pitched moan. For a minute, he got a rush thinking that his mother would be dead and gone, and that stupid baby in her stomach along with her.
    But she didn’t die. And his father apologized over and over again. He said he loved her, loved the baby, loved everything in the world.
    Wimp!
    Wimp.
    He shivered in the night. The wet Portland air reminded him of growing up, which reminded him how much he hated his family.
    He looked back through the patio door and smiled. The picture-perfect family, sitting and laughing on the couch. He chuckled. No family was perfect. People had thought
his
family was perfect. For a while, anyway. What a joke!
    Inside the house, the mother—Ms. Gina Harper, divorced—stood and stretched.
    Time for bed
, she mouthed.
    The older girl, a teenager, yawned and slowly rose from the couch. The younger girl, five or six with dark, curly pigtails, protested. Gina Harper picked her up, tickled her, and carried her from the room. The older girl glanced in his direction, an odd look on her face, then gathered up the popcorn bowls and soda cans, turned off the lights, and followed her mother and sister.
    His heart beat double-time at the thought that she’d sensed him. That somehow she knew her fate.
    That she would be the next to die.
    But of course she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t even known he stood on the brick patio outside the family room door. He’d prepared carefully.
    This time there would be one minor deviation from the book, but it was one he was sure the author would appreciate.
     
CHAPTER 7
     
    Rowan slept in fits and starts, her emotions raw. The nightmare stayed with her even when her eyes were open, and it didn’t just concern the Franklin family murder. Evils older than four years tried to push themselves into her conscious memory; she had to fight aggressively to keep them at bay. In doing so, she developed a pounding, mind-numbing headache.
    She downed two prescription-strength Motrin and went downstairs. Michael sat at the dining room table reading papers in a file.
    “What’s that?”
    He looked up, frowned, and closed the file. “You look like hell.”
    “Thanks.” He obviously wasn’t going to tell her about the file. She imagined it had something to do with the murder of the florist, or poor Doreen Rodriguez. She didn’t need to see the file, having already pictured the murders in her imagination.
    “I’ll make you something to eat.”
    She shook her head. Eating had never been important to her; during stressful times, she often forgot. “I want to run.”
    “That’s not a good idea.”
    “I don’t care.”
    The doorbell rang and she jumped. Since when had the normalcy of everyday life scared her? She pulled her Glock from its holster and held it ready.
    Michael drew his own weapon, motioning for her to wait in the kitchen.
    He looked through the peephole. “Who is it?” he