The creaking stops. Everything’s quiet. Maybe Cal left. Maybe whoever called changed his mind. But then the floorboards creak again, the sound moving toward the door above the ladder. He’s coming.

My teeth chatter with cold and fear and with such force that my head bobs. He’s at the open door, looking down on me.

“My sons,” Cal says. “It was sweet of them to call.” He sighs. “But they’re better off without me. You know? This is better.” He closes his eyes momentarily, as if reliving a last lovely memory of family life.

Cal turns his back to me and starts down the ladder. He walks quickly, like a man on a mission, to where I huddle against the cold, damp wall. “Little Melinda, you thought you’d escaped the cellar all those years ago.” He chuckles. “But my big brother couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t finish what he started. But not me.” He shakes his head.

I take a deep raspy breath. “Don’t you want to live for your kids, Cal?”

He paces away from me, then back again. Beads of sweat cling to his upper lip, despite the cold. The blood, which had started to dry on his temple, now begins to drip along his cheek.

I work my fingers behind my back, furiously trying to keep the feeling in them.

“Oh, I plan on living, Melinda. How else will I get to appreciate my handiwork?”

“But your boys?”

He walks away again. “I’ll make them famous, and they can visit me if they want to. They’ll write a book about their dad, what it was like to grow up in the perfect family. How no one had a clue what depraved thoughts swirled through the mind of their handsome, successful, athletic dad.” He turns in my direction, his gaze seeking mine. “All the best serial killers led normal, even exemplary lives, Melinda. That’s the beauty of it, being smarter than everyone else.” He pulls the gun from his pocket and sets it on the floor, too far away for me to reach it.

Then he slips his hand into his other pocket and pulls out a knife, clicks a hinge to open it, and I catch my breath. Cal slides down next to me and places the tip against my throat. I go completely still, swallow, sweat dripping along the sides of my face. He lowers the knife, slides back the sleeve on my left arm. I feel the roughness of his fingers as they work their way over my scar.

“My brother’s work. His brand,” Cal says and snorts. “Terrible work, as usual.” His eyes meet mine. “But you’ve probably had something done. Laser treatments to try to erase it all?”

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.