She threw her head back and laughed heartily.

Raymond strove to keep his voice calm. He had to make her see reason. Only by keeping a level head might he see his way through this storm. “I’ve been blackmailed. It’s been horrible. A nightmare. I’ve had no choice.”

Patricia glared at him. “And I don’t care. I’m through with you, Raymond. I’m getting a divorce. I’m getting this house and all your fucking money. And then I’m getting the hell out of this podunk town you’ve trapped me in all these years. There’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll agree to whatever I want.” She grinned. “Unless you want everyone you know to see the pictures.”

The thought of it made Raymond pray for a heart attack. He imagined his daughter, a college freshman, seeing those pictures and wanted to scream.

Raymond’s chest hitched.

He sniffled and his vision blurred.

“Awww.” Patricia mocked him again. “Poor little baby. Is my soon-to-be ex-husband about to cry?”

Raymond wiped moisture from his eyes. He met his wife’s fiery, horribly satisfied gaze and felt a long-dormant piece of himself flare briefly to life and then die. It all hit him at once. The tragedy of his broken life. He’d had it all. A wife, a beautiful child, money, and a rewarding career. Not anymore. Piece by piece, bit by bitter bit, he’d dismantled his slice of the American Dream through his own arrogance and stupidity. Looking into Patricia’s eyes, he knew it was all over.

He sniffed again. “I’m sorry. I really am.” The sentiment was sincere. Now that the big secret, the thing he’d worked so hard to conceal, was a secret no more, he was seized by a need to come clean on everything before it was too late. Tragedy could still be averted. The desire frightened him because he knew the risk involved was probably life threatening, but he plunged ahead anyway. “There’s something I have to tell you. Your first instinct will be to scoff, but I beg you, Patricia, I beseech you, please listen with an open mind. So many innocent lives are at stake. We have to warn people. A student at Rockville High is a…” He hesitated. Here it was, the big moment. But now he felt ridiculous. She would never believe this. He sighed. “She’s a demon.”

Patricia laughed again louder than ever. “You grandiose, delusional fool!” Hilarity rendered her voice shrill. “You ridiculous man. Egads, how lucky I’ll be to be shed of you!” She rolled her eyes. “A demon!”

Raymond’s shame and self-pity intensified. He felt small. Impotent. Then he heard something incongruous, barely audible through his wife’s laughter. A creak. And another. A sound like someone moving with deliberate stealth. When Raymond saw what was looming over Patricia’s shoulder, he opened his mouth to scream.

It was too late.

Patricia’s laugh became a squeal as her head was jerked roughly back. A long, curved blade was then pressed against her throat. The gloved hand holding the blade’s handle gave it a savage jerk and Patricia’s throat opened like a zipper. Blood geysered from the massive wound, splashing Raymond’s face and getting inside his mouth and nose. He felt another pain in his chest, this time so intense he thought he really might have a heart attack. Then the big blade, similar to a machete, returned and ripped at Patricia’s neck again.

The strength of her attacker was phenomenal, almost inhuman.

Her head came free of her body.

Penelope Simmons jumped onto the bed and kicked the lifeless body aside. Clad entirely in black and wearing a dark wig and sunglasses, she looked like something out of a piece of spy fiction, a sexy paid assassin. She stood over Raymond, the top of her head nearly grazing the bed’s canopy; then she grinned at her lover.

“I heard you, Raymond. You big tattletale, you.” Her blue eyes burned with excitement. “You’ve been naughty. You better hope you-know-who doesn’t cut your tongue out. That would be a shame. I’m rather fond of your tongue.” She gave Patricia’s severed head a hard shake, pumping it like an especially enthusiastic cheerleader waving a pom-pom. “Aren’t you glad this stupid cow is dead? We’re free at last, Raymond, free at last. Praise Lamia.”

Raymond just blubbered, incapable now of speech or screams.

Penelope cackled. “Catch, baby.”

She tossed Patricia’s head to Raymond.

This time he did manage to scream.

And he screamed for a while, straining his vocal cords.

Until Penelope made him shut up.

The beer was good. Better than good, like liquid nirvana. Kelsey and Will stood in the kitchen, calming their nerves with some of Blake Mackeson’s German beer. Save for a single flickering candle on the counter, the room was dark. All the lights were off. The intent was to convey the impression of an empty house. After what had transpired over the last several hours, they imagined themselves surrounded by enemies, lurking assassins just waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

Kelsey polished off his third Warsteiner and set it on the counter. “That beer is the shit, man. I don’t know if I can ever drink Bud again.”

Will nodded. He didn’t bother with a verbal reply. He’d barely said anything since knocking his mother unconscious. The violence disturbed him. Though his mom had meant to kill them both, he felt guilt. She was his mother. She wasn’t much of a mother, true, but there was still an emotional attachment. He could no more excise the part of himself that still cared for her than he could cut off his own hand. Hell, cutting off his own hand might be easier.

He flashed on an image:…that gash in her forehead, the shocking flow of blood, staining the carpet red…

Will’s mom had tackled Kelsey after his shot went astray. She’d pinned him to the floor and wrapped her hands around his throat. She would have killed him had Will not intervened. Now, bound with duct tape and gagged with a sock, she was stuffed in the closet in Will’s bedroom. Blake Mackeson was bound to the leather chair in his office, where he’d been since Kelsey knocked him unconscious with a fireplace poker. According to Kelsey, Will’s dad had been in the process of loading his gun. Kelsey, who had quietly entered the house moments after Mr. Mackeson’s arrival, had eavesdropped on enough of the conversation in Will’s bedroom to know it didn’t bode well for Will.

Will recalled the sight of the ruined radio on his nightstand, which had been struck by the misdirected bullet. “Kelsey…”

Kelsey popped the top off another Warsteiner. “Yeah?”

Will swallowed a lump in his throat. This wouldn’t be easy to say. “I think we should call 911.”

Kelsey gaped at him. “Are you kidding? Why, for fuck’s sake?”

Will swallowed some Warsteiner. He didn’t like beer as much as Kelsey or Trey, but liquid courage seemed absolutely necessary right now. “Because I hit her with a fucking baseball bat, man. She could have a concussion. Hell, maybe even brain damage. She could be dying right now.”

Kelsey shook his head, made an exasperated sound. “I don’t think so. You didn’t hit her that hard. That wasn’t any Babe Ruth swing, bro. And we got the bleeding to stop, right? She’s fine. And I hate to say it, man, but her health is the least of our concerns right now.”

Will glared at his friend. “Easy for you to say. She’s not your mother.”

Kelsey held the gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, then sighed. “All right. Fair enough. But you know something, Will? I’m the guy who was attacked by his own sister. I may have killed a man to make it out of my own house alive. You’re not the only one who’s had a rough time today.”

Will’s anger evaporated. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

Kelsey shrugged. “It’s okay. Look, we need to be thinking about our next step, figure out a plan of action before this special assembly you say your mom told you about.”