Every fraction of my body sharpens into a single point, insides seized in pure fear. It doesn’t sound like Morgan.

I barely feel the next buzz. Still, I lift the screen to my face, scrape over every word.

You look just like her.

The killer’s here.

I spin wildly around, arms in front of my chest as a fruitless shield. Searching the shadows for organic shape, a sign of where they’re hiding. So I can flee in the opposite fucking direction.

I’m a sitting duck. In this cavernous room with only two directions to run to get out. The pool glitters to my left, twin locker rooms with ominous dark doorways to my right. I’m frozen in my heels. A new song comes on, a rhythmic four-count of percussion reminding me how far away from everyone I am.

Go, my mind screams. But which way? Back the way I came, or through the front door? Which one will push me into the path of a killer?

The sole of a boot squeaks on tile. Behind me. I whip around.

“Cecelia.” Gabriel steps into the half-light, phone in his hand.

Gabriel, the history buff. Who’d get his rocks off on how much I look like my grandmother. Mirroring the OG murder with Natalie.

“It’s you.” My heart spikes into my throat. Run, my brain screams. But he’s bigger than I am, and could close the distance between us in seconds. I need a plan. Have to time it perfectly. I edge back a foot, then two.

“We need to talk.” His voice is a disturbing monotone. Palms out, as if he’s trying to calm me down. Like I’m the dangerous one.

“Ben’s looking for me,” I lie. “He knows where I am.”

Anger flashes over Gabriel’s features. I take another step backward. Gabriel follows suit. Repeats my name like a platitude. An idea bursts into my mind, and I don’t second-guess it. This could be my only chance. I lunge forward, the element of surprise my only advantage as I shove him as hard as I can. Right into the pool.

I’m running like hell toward the stairway to the gym before I hear the resultant splash.

My heels pinch my toes; my calves burn as I sprint up the stairs. Up, up, up, until I hit the door, almost literally. I grab at the handle, jerk it down. But it doesn’t budge. I’m fucking locked in.

No, no, no, no, no. Denial in full force, I yank the handle down again and again, hoping for a different outcome.

“Help me!” I scream, but the music in the gym is too loud, and who knows if the door is soundproof. It’s steel. Heavy.