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The room tilted, spun, shrank to a single point of dread. The sheriff waved him toward the door. “Take her and get out of here, son. And keep her on her medication.”

Malakar guided me to my feet, his arm locked around my waist, dragging me out into the hall. Doris watched, her face pale, uncertain. She didn’t move to stop him, not even when I looked her dead in the eyes, pleading, begging, broken.

The cold air slapped me as Malakar dragged me outside, toward his car. I stumbled, my body boneless with terror and defeat. The sun was gone, the sky was purple-black, the parking lot empty except for his old, familiar car.

He opened the passenger door, shoved me inside and slammed it shut. I pressed my forehead to the glass, breath fogging the window, eyes burning with tears.

He slid into the driver’s seat, eyes glittering with triumph and something darker. He reached for my hand, his touch gentle now, the monster caged for a moment.

“You see, bluebird?” he murmured. “No one listens. No one cares. You belong to me. Only to me.”

Hopelessness crashed through me, shattering what was left. No one would ever save me. No one would ever believe. The cage was closed, the walls too thick, the world outside deaf to girls who scream. He started the engine, humming under his breath, and drove us back into the dark.

Chapter 22

I’m Your Bluebird

Starla

A violent storm was brewing. I was caught in the middle, helpless, terrified, awaiting the damage. His hands were shaking, his eye was twitching. It must’ve taken a lot for him to keep his monster contained in the police station.

He parked, yanked me out of the car, and dragged me inside. I screamed the whole time. Clawing at his arms, frantically trying to think of a way to get out of this.

To Malakar, the world had gone dark, and there was only him and me and the need to stuff me back into the cage before I could slip through his fingers for good.

The front door crashed open under his fist. My feet scraped the threshold, knees buckling, but he hauled me inside like I weighed nothing. The house swallowed us up, walls pressing in, shadows ballooning in every corner. My lungs seized. The dead girls’ faces flashed behind my eyes.

“Let me go!” I shrieked. My nails raked his forearm, he barely flinched.

He slammed the door behind us, the lock clicking shut with a finality that sounded like a coffin lid. His grip bruised my bicep, hard enough to make the bone throb. He whipped me around, shoving me against the wall. The air whooshed out of my chest.

“You ran,” he spat, voice vibrating with a rage I’d never heard before. “You ran, bluebird. After everything I did for you. After I took care of you. You ran.” His hands shook, fingers digging into my arms, pinning me like a butterfly to the wall.

Terror flared up my spine. I tried to twist away, but he only pressed closer, his body was a cage. His eyes were wild, black holes. Bottomless, empty.

“Malakar, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was scared, I wasn’t thinking!”

He didn’t hear me. He was somewhere else, shaking all over, his face crumpling and reforming by the second. He slammed his fist into the wall beside my head, plaster raining down in powdery flakes. He was muttering, pacing, knocking over a lamp with a vicious backhand.

“You lied. You lied. You all fucking lie. You said you’d stay, bluebird. You said you wouldn’t be like the others.” His voice fractured, words tumbling out in a blur. “I tried so fucking hard. I did everything right. And you still left. Why won’t anyone just stay?”

He shoved a chair, sending it skittering across the floor, slamming into the kitchen counter. Dishes toppled, a glass shattering with a crystalline scream. He kicked the table. My pulse stuttered; the whole house seemed to pulse with his rage.

I pressed myself into the wall, squeezing into the cracks, but he was on me again in a second, hands fisted in the front of my dress. He shook me.

“Why did you run?” he screamed, his voice echoing off every wall. “Am I not good enough for you? Am I not enough for you?”

I sobbed, unable to breathe, unable to think, terror chewing holes in my mind. “Malakar, stop, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

He threw me to the floor. My knees thudded hard enough to bruise, palms scraping on splinters. I crawled backwards, but he stalked after me, boots thudding, face a mask of rage and pain and something deeper, something black and endless.

He kicked the coffee table, sending it spinning. A bookcase toppled, books and knickknacks tumbling to the ground. He tore a photo off the wall, slamming it down, glass splintering, raining over both of us. I covered my head, curling in on myself, but he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up so I was kneeling before him.

“You wanted to leave me,” he hissed, voice so low it was almost inhuman. “You wanted to be like mother. Like the others. You wanted to run, so I’d have to chase you down and drag you back. You wanted to break me.”

He was crying now, tears leaking down his cheeks, streaking the blood and grime. His anger wasn’t dimming, it was curdling, turning into a frantic, shattered grief.

I reached for his arm, hoping to calm him, but he slapped my hand away, his whole body vibrating. “No, no, no, don’t touch me. I know what happens when you touch me. Mother used to touch me before she left. She said she loved me, then she tried to run, she tried to leave me with him. You’re all the fucking same.”