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I nearly collide with the back end. It’s stopped right in the middle of the road, the hood facing the other way.

I hit the button again, as if the damn door won’t already be open from the dozen other times.

“Ms. Laughton?” a voice calls from the mass of swirling bugs.

It’s a trick.

Do not stop. Do not even slow down. Get in—

Through the bugs, a figure appears. It’s too solid to be Anton. Too stooped to be Lori.

It’s Mrs. Kilmer. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you. I can’t see a thing with these bugs.” As she walks closer, she waves a hand in front of her face. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Get in the car,” I say, reaching for the driver’s-door handle.

She stops short. “What?”

Oh, right. This poor woman doesn’t know I’m running from my young housemate, now possessed by the murderous ghosts of her relatives. I swallow the hiccuping laugh bubbling up in my throat.

Don’t snap at her. Don’t bark orders. She has no idea what…

No idea what happened to her son.

My insides clench, pain ripping through me, sympathetic agony for what this poor woman is going to discover.

I shove it back and say, “Please get in the car, Mrs. Kilmer. There’s been an accident at the house.” That wild laugh threatens again.An accident? That’s one way of putting it. Horrific double murder is another.“Please get in the car. I’ll explain as I drive you home.”

“Oh. All right. Thank you. Something is really wrong with these bugs. I’ve never seen—”

“Mrs. Kilmer? Ma’am?” I’m overly polite as I struggle to keep my voice steady. “It’s my CF. I can’t breathe with these bugs. We need to get in the car now.”

Her eyes widen and she murmurs, “Oh, of course.”

“Nic!” Anton’s voice sounds right beside me, as if he’s shouting in my ear.

I jump and look around wildly, but he could be standing a few feet from me and I wouldn’t see him through the bugs.

He’s warning me to move faster, that the longer I stand here talking to Mrs. Kilmer, the more time I’m giving Lori to find me.

I yank open the driver’s door. Mrs. Kilmer turns to go around tothe passenger side. Then she stops, and her eyes go even wider, her mouth opening in an O of surprise.

Anton shouts something, words indistinct and garbled but frantic.

Mrs. Kilmer staggers forward, and I release the door to grab her. There’s a wet, ripping sound, and her body convulses, head thrown back, mouth open.

Something flashes silver amid the swarming fog of bugs.

The pruning shears.

The shears ram into Mrs. Kilmer’s back again, the tips appearing. Then the blades start to open, and Mrs. Kilmer screams, a raw, animal sound.

I let go of Mrs. Kilmer and punch my fist into the swirling bugs. My hand strikes flesh. I grab the steak knife from my pocket, and I lunge at the figure lost in that swarm of bugs. I stab and stab again.

I feel the knife make contact. I can’t hear anything over Mrs. Kilmer’s screams, but the blade comes back bloody and I keep stabbing, moving toward whatever—whoever—I am stabbing, and that’s when I realize I cannot see who I’m stabbing.

I don’t care. I am stabbing whoever just rammed pruning shears into an innocent woman andopenedthem. I keep stabbing until I see Lori’s face twisted in pain and rage.

“Can’t get out, can you?” I say as I yank the steak knife back again. “You’re trapped in there, and I hope this—”