I’m going to die.

My beloved snowflake necklace—the one I have worn every day for the last seven years—is cutting off my oxygen supply. Strong fingers are pulling it tight, closing off my windpipe as I gasp for air.

“Please…” I try to form the words but I have no air.

He’s going to kill me. Tim is going to kill me with the necklace he bought me for my tenth birthday. The irony of it.

Except then I catch up with a whiff of something. Something in the air.

A familiar scent close to me, coming from the guy holding me down.

Sandalwood. Shane’s aftershave.

It’s not Tim after all. Tim is the one lying dead on the floor. Shane is the one holding me down, trying to choke me to death. Shane is the one who had the opportunity to plan this. To get rid of all the knives and weapons in his house except for the knife used to stab Brandon and Kayla

—and now Tim—to death.

But he’s chosen a different end for me. “Shane,” I try to choke out.

But it’s no use. My head starts to swim as I cling to consciousness. I struggle against him, but he’s too strong, and he’s got the edge lying on top of me.

Where is Chelsea? I don’t understand. She was trying to get out of the room. She should be out by now—she should be able to help me. But she’s not here. Maybe she decided to hide out when she heard me scream. I couldn’t entirely blame her.

Lightning flashes, and I catch a glimpse of the blood in a pool beneath me. It feels hopeless. Shane already killed three people tonight. And one of

them was a football player even bigger than he is. My consciousness is slipping away. I’m going to die. This is going to happen.

A crash of thunder shakes the foundation of the house. It’s the loudest one yet, and vaguely, I’m aware of another sound in the background. And one other thing.

The snapping of a link in my necklace.

All at once, the air comes rushing into my lungs. I can breathe again. A rush of adrenaline hits me, and I sense Shane has been thrown off balance by my necklace breaking loose. If there’s ever been a chance, this is it. I swing my elbow back as hard as I can.

When he grunts with agony, I know I have hit the money spot. The pressure on my body eases up, and I manage to roll out from under him. I’m sure in a minute, he’ll have recovered, so I’ve got to run. I can’t look back.

I make it to the front door and yank it open so hard that the hinges scream. I burst out into the night, barely aware of how cold it is and the fact that I don’t have a jacket on. The rain is coming down hard and there’s practically a river in front of Shane’s house, but I can’t think about that. I have to run. Maybe there is a fallen power line out there waiting to electrocute me, but I have to take that chance.

I run out onto the flooded road, grateful that my hours of cheerleading practice have kept me fit and nimble. Of course, Shane is pretty damn fit too. He’s a quarterback. And his legs are a lot longer than mine. All I’ve got going for me is a head start and the fact that nobody has elbowed me hard in the testicles.

“Brooke!”

I hear my name called out from somewhere behind me. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe it’s the wind. But I have to believe he’s close behind me. He can’t let me leave. If I live, I’ll tell everyone what he’s done.

“Brooke!”

Tears are streaming down my cheeks. My feet are numb from the ice- cold water, but I’ve got to keep going. This is my only chance. I’ve got to live.

“Broo—”

And then I see it. A set of headlights in the distance. It looks like a pickup truck. Under ordinary circumstances, it’s the kind of vehicle I would

keep my distance from late at night because you never know what kind of axe murderer is driving, but right now, it’s my only chance.

I run towards the truck, waving my hands in the air. “Stop!” I scream. “Help me!”

Thank God, the truck stops, and the night doesn’t end with me being hit and killed by a pickup truck. I hazard a look behind me, but there’s nobody there. I’m not sure Shane was ever following me in the first place, but if he was, he’s gone now.

I run up to the side of the vehicle. The driver is a big guy with a full beard. He’s bigger than Shane. He looks tough, but his eyes go wide and all the color drains from his face when he looks at me, standing there dripping wet, blood all over my shirt.

“Please help me,” I say. And then I collapse.

It’s over.