Miguel’s guest pushed past him and fumbled along the wall to find the switch. A second later his living room was bathed in a brightness that made him wince. When his eyes adjusted, they focused on Annika’s thin body and the expression on her face. She looked upset.

“Why are you here?” She never came to his house. Too much trouble. Trouble. The word pricked his consciousness, but the reason evaded him.

Annika stared at him. Her eyes narrowed for a few seconds. “How long have you been out?”

Miguel’s head started to throb. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He couldn’t remember. Only that the hours he was awake had grown longer.

“What happened to your hands?” Annika started for him and Miguel stepped back until his back hit the door. Her cold fingers wrapped around his wrists, lifting them so she could see his hands.

“I cut them.”

“I can see that, but how?” She moved the wrap covering his wound, her fingers pressing into the sliced skin. Red blood oozed from another broken scab.

“Work.” He twisted his hands away from her.

“You’re sculpting again?”

It had been months since he’d picked up his tools, but the urge to cut into the flesh of the tree had overwhelmed him. He’d needed a release. A way to escape the monster haunting him.

“Can you still paint?”

“Is that why you’re here?” He adjusted the rag over his hand. His head started to throb . . . like it did when he needed to slip away.

Annika’s face grew indiscernible, or maybe it was his mind beginning to fade. “Why did Sydney call you?”

Fear slid down his throat as images flashed in his mind. Short bursts of a nightmare that kept him shrouded in darkness. “What?”

“You know what’s happened, don’t you? Sydney’s dead, Miguel. After she called you.”

Miguel took an involuntary step back, dropping the bloodied rag in his hand. Sydney’s pale blue eyes flashed in his mind. “I-I didn’t do anything.”

“What did you do to her, Miguel?” Annika’s voice softened. “Why did she come to you?”

What happened? He squeezed his eyes tight. Sydney had been trying to tell him something. She didn’t want to paint anymore. Was scared. Of him? He wouldn’t have hurt Sydney. She was just a girl. A young girl. She had come to him for help. Needed help, but for what? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? His gaze drifted over to a painting against the wall.

“Ah, yes.” Annika followed the direction of his gaze to the painting. “You remember, don’t you? Sydney gave you a painting . . . or did you kill her and then steal it—”

“No!” he barked. Miguel looked at his hands. The slivers of gouged skin made him dizzy. He stumbled to his couch.

“Why were you in the woods that night, Miguel?”