Dennis bolted out from behind a tree. He grabbed at Wendy, catching hold of one braid and yanking her off her feet as she tried to run. Her notebook went flying. She landed on all fours and barely managed to dodge sideways enough that Dennis missed her back as he plunged down with the knife.

Scrambling to get up, looking over her shoulder at Dennis, she ran smack into Cody, and they both fell flat. Wendy was covered in blood as she rolled off him and started running, Dennis Farman right on her heels.

Dennis was bigger and stronger, but Wendy was quick. Every time he lunged for her, she managed to arch her back and evade his grasp—until the toe of her sneaker hit squarely on the exposed root of a tree.

She fell hard, the wind going out of her in one big, painful whoosh!

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Dennis screamed over and over.

He fell to his knees on top of her, the knife flying out of his bloody hand as he drew his arm back to stab her. He didn’t seem to notice it was gone and kept bringing his arm down again and again, as if he was driving the knife into her, his fist thumping so hard against her chest she saw stars with each contact.

Wendy’s vision filled with black lace. She couldn’t get a breath. Dennis was on top of her. She was going to die.

Chapter 65

65

Tommy spent the day walking on eggshells. It was something he was very good at because he had a lot of practice doing it. He had always known how to read his mother’s moods—or anyone’s for that matter. He never understood people who couldn’t.

His father had left the house very early to help with the search for the missing lady. Tommy had asked to go along, but his dad had explained they didn’t allow kids to be there.

That didn’t make sense to Tommy, since kids could look for things just as well as adults—and probably better. They were closer to the ground and they paid more attention to what was around them. And besides that, he had already seen a dead body before, so it wasn’t like he would be afraid if he saw one again.

But it didn’t matter, because his dad left him once again to deal with his mother, who got out of bed mad, slamming doors and drawers, muttering to herself. That was the worst thing: when she talked to herself under her breath, so angry, her eyes hard and cold.

She went through the house “cleaning,” as she called it. Throwing things left and right, out of drawers, onto the floor—magazines, newspapers, mail. She went through the kitchen throwing out food, throwing things out of the refrigerator into the sink.