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My head won’t stop spinning.

For a second, I have tunnel vision, and I have to grab on to the mantle to keep from falling. Mrs. Cross seems a bit panicked. Maybe she’s sorry she invited me in.

“Mr. Porter?” she says in a worried voice.

“I…” I take a few deep breaths, trying to keep myself from passing out. “I just…”

How could the terrible person Mrs. Cross was describing be my Krista? That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense.

Although…

In a way, it makes perfect sense.

Oh no.

A terrible thought hits me. I’ve got to get out of here. This situation has just gone from bad to worse.

“Thank you for talking to me, Mrs. Cross,” I say. “But I have to…”

She seems to get it. She leads me back to the door, and I burst out of there as fast as I can, gasping in the fresh air. But what I really need is to get off my feet. Well, I need to do that, and I need to make a phone call. Right away.

I hurry back to my car. Once I’m inside, I scroll through my phone, searching my contacts. It’s not easy, given how badly my hands are shaking. When I find the name Stacie Parker, I click to place a call to my old boss’s assistant.

Please pick up. Please.

After several rings, the call goes to voicemail. She’s not answering. But it might be okay. People sometimes don’t answer their phones during the day.

My head is spinning so much that I can barely think straight. I have to focus to get my hands to work as I bring up the Facebook app on my phone. I find her profile right away, with her pretty smiling face. I click on it, and right away I see that the last post wasn’t from Stacie at all. It’s from another name that I recognize as belonging to her roommate.

Still trying to locate Stacie. If anybody has any information or has heard from her, please let us know right away! Still hoping she will come home, safe and sound!

Except Stacie is not coming home safe and sound. And whenever they find her, she will be missing three of her fingers with their nails painted pink.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

It was one time. One time. It didn’t mean anything. I was working such long hours, trying to snag that promotion, and she was there, and I just… I slipped.

It was so stupid. I knew it at the time, and right after, I told Stacie it was never going to happen again. I was just thankful that Krista never found out.

Except it turns out Krista knew. She knew the whole time. I thought everything was fine between us. We were getting married, for Christ’s sake.

I stuff my phone into my jacket pocket, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. While my hand is inside, I feel a slip of paper in there that I hadn’t noticed before. I pull it out and discover a sheet of notebook paper that has been folded several times.

What is this?

I unfold the piece of paper, which is covered in scribbled writing. Somebody has written a letter in black ink. It actually looks a lot like my handwriting. I can tell the difference, but a casual observer probably wouldn’t be able to.

I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I couldn’t deal with losing my job, and it was all too much for me. After all the lives I’ve taken, I can’t go on. I’ve decided it’s better to end it all right now.

Blake

Is this a suicide note ?

Did Krista slip it into my jacket? Based on what she did to her high school boyfriend, it sounds like her MO. Except I’m not dead, so why is there a suicide note in my pocket? It doesn’t make any sense. What good would a suicide note be if I’m still alive?

When I get back to the city, will Krista be waiting for me on the roof of the brownstone, ready to push me off? Waiting in the kitchen with a butcher knife? Whatever she has planned, I know her game now. I’m not going to give her the chance to take me out and make it look like a suicide. She has missed her chance.

Except…

I swivel my head to look at the passenger seat. There’s a Ziploc bag on the seat, which still has one cookie left inside.

The cookies .

Krista knew I was coming to see her. She knew I was on my way, and the first thing she did was start baking cookies. She knew I would eat them—they’re my favorite.

Fuck.

I wrench the door of the Corolla open. I leap out of the car and make a beeline for a group of bushes on the outskirts of the Cross residence. Then I shove my index finger down my throat until my eyes start to tear. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop until I have vomited up the entire contents of my stomach onto the ground beneath my feet.