The house ticked and creaked like the limbs of a rheumatic old man. Jerome hurried along the corridor, stopping at the dining hall and sticking his head through the doorway. It was dark and silent. Half-eaten food still sat on the table from an interrupted lunchtime. It seemed like days ago that they had all left the table in a panic.
A wave of claustrophobia passed through him as he made his way along the corridor. This house was beginning to feel like a tomb. He checked the art room, then the meditation room. Both were empty and silent. Moving into the foyer, he saw Helen’s blood and froze on the spot. He’d never been so afraid. Stepping around, he rattled the locked door to Pamela’s office, then checked the front door. Both bolts had been pulled back.
A sliver of fear slipped down the back of his t-shirt. He turned and faced the stairs.
“Emily? Are you up there?”
He already knew the answer.
Cursing under his breath, he took two steps at a time, until he reached the landing. Silence greeted him. He fumbled along the wall until he found the light switch. Orange ceiling lights flickered to life.
Jerome moved along the corridor. He knocked on Emily’s door, then opened it without waiting for an answer. As expected, the room was empty. He made a quick search of the other rooms in the vain hope that he’d find her snooping through someone else’s possessions. But it was just that—a vain hope.
Stood in Melody’s room, he reminded himself of all of the foolish and dangerous things Emily had done in the past; albeit for the greater good. When he looked at it that way, heading outside to find Melody while a maniac was on the loose wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary.
He would have to go after her, wouldn’t he? He would have to go out into the dark to find her. Not to rescue her—Emily Swanson would not tolerate being rescued—but to back her up. Jerome didn’t know who he was angrier with—Emily for lying to him, for putting herself in danger yet again, or with himself for being so gullible.
“Damn you, Emily Swanson.”
Wondering what his next move should be, Jerome turned to leave the room. Something flashed in the darkness. Melody’s tablet lay on the bed, the standby light pulsing like a winking eye. He looked back at the open door. Curiosity momentarily getting the better of him, he picked up the tablet and swiped a finger across the screen. Light spilled out, illuminating the angles of his face. Thumbnails of photographs presented themselves. There were pictures of flowers growing in the meadow and pictures of foxgloves in the forest. They were followed by a series of photographs showing wreaths and garlands roughly fashioned together and placed at the base of a tree. Jerome flicked through each one. They’d be taken at different times of the year. In some pictures, the ground was covered in autumn leaves while in others, fresh grass sprouted between the tree roots. But one thing was certain—the images were all of the same tree. As he used his finger and thumb to enlarge one of the images, Jerome felt blood rushing in his ears.
There, carved into the bark, was the chaos star. This was the tree that Oscar had been hanged from. But why had Melody been leaving flowers there and taking pictures? Anxiety churning his stomach, Jerome flicked past the photos, until he came upon some very different images. They’d been taken in and around the house. There were pictures of Sam, Marcia and Pamela. And there was a picture of someone else.
Jerome’s jaw swung open. His eyes grew round and wide.
The photograph had been taken from the upstairs corridor, a candid shot through the half-open door of one of the guest’s bedrooms. The man seemed unaware of the photographer’s presence. He was shirtless, his body taught and lean, a mess of dark curls covering his head. Eyes as black as onyx stared into space. There were scars on his chest—thin parallel lines of angry raised flesh that were not the results of any form of surgery. But it wasn’t the scars that had gripped Jerome’s attention.
Mind racing, he zoomed in on the image. There was something on the man’s left forearm. A blemish or a birthmark. Jerome enlarged the image further. He leaned closer to the screen. It was no blemish. It was a tattoo. Eight arrows crossed each other like a compass—four long pointing north, east, south, west, and four short, placed symmetrically in between. It was a chaos star—the same symbol that had been carved into the tree and that had been painted in Sam’s blood.
As for the man, Jerome recognised him instantly.
“Franklyn Hobbes,” he whispered to the darkness.
But why was there a photograph of him on Melody’s tablet? She’d been nowhere near Meadow Pines the night Franklyn had attacked Marcia and then disappeared into the forest, had she?
A deep tremor of worry shuddered through Jerome’s body. He stood and peered out of the window and over the black trees. Had she? His thoughts tripped over each other. He looked back at the tablet, at the image of Franklyn Hobbes. Suddenly, Jerome wasn’t worried about Emily being out there alone looking for Melody, he was worried about Emily finding her. He needed to speak to Pamela. He needed Helen to wake up.
Pulling himself from the window, he snatched Melody’s tablet from the bed and turned towards the door. Just in time to see it slam shut. He heard a key slide into the keyhole, then a crunch of gears as the lock slammed into place.
“Hey!” He ran to the door and pulled on the handle. He curled a fist and hammered against the wood. “Who’s out there? Let me out!”
A shadow cut through the light seeping in beneath the door. Then, Jerome heard footsteps pounding downstairs and along the hall, heading straight towards Pamela and Helen.