The crowbar feels cold in my sweaty palm. It feels like a decision I have to make. It feels right.

That’s when I hear movement, and before I can turn, I feel something pushed hard against my mouth, one gloved hand muffling my scream and the other wrapped tight around my waist.

Behind me, almost in a whisper, Mr. Farrell says, “You should have run.”

Chapter 133

I refuse to cry in front of him, no matter how much I want to. I stare into his eyes until he’s the one to look away.

We’re upstairs, my back pushed against the side of his bed, when he reaches into his pocket and says, “You like being recorded, don’t you, Jessica?”

“What?”

Holding his phone out to me, he says, “Smile for the camera.”

It takes a few seconds to understand what I’m looking at, then I realize it’s me, here, now.

I look up, scanning the four corners of the bedroom, and there it is, a camera like the ones in my house. Only this one isn’t streaming my life to the world; it’s going straight to Mr. Farrell’s phone.

“You can’t be too careful,” he says. “I had a feeling your persistence would pay off. How old were you when your mom died…five?”

“Seven,” I say, and he grins.

“Time flies.” He walks over to the camera and pulls it off the wall. “I’ll have to get rid of these now…along with everything else.”

He smiles, and there’s nothing fake about it. He looks like the monster I once imagined him to be.

“You made me do something I haven’t done for a long time, Jessica. You made me kill quickly.”

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

Mr. Farrell crouches in front of me and says, “But you did. You challenged me, all those grieving families with their T-shirts. It gave me an idea I couldn’t ignore. I had fun playing with you. It’s a shame it has to end.”

He grabs me under my arms and pulls me up, then opens Bernie’s bedroom door and pushes me inside.

I look at Jamie and hate myself for getting him into this. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to go back in time and do things differently. I want to ignore Mr. Collins and force Lorraine to believe me about Clara and have the police find the receipt.

But if I had a time machine, there would be no need for any of this.

“Did you like my messages?” he says.

Then, as if realizing something, he pulls me up and forces his hand into my pocket, pulling my phone out, then does the same with Jamie. He looks at them, then smiles.