Chapter 2

"Hah—!"

I shot up from my chair, my hands frantically clutching at my throat.

I stumbled into the bathroom and threw myself at the mirror above the sink.

Gasping heavily for air, my trembling hands hooked my collar and pulled it down as I stared dead into my reflection.

No wound.

No blood.

The skin on my neck was perfectly intact.

But the agonizing pain of having my throat slit out of nowhere had been so real that my thighs were still shaking uncontrollably.

I backed into the main room in panic, looking around.

The easel, the scattered sketches, the empty coffee mugs.

Barnaby was lying quietly on the burgundy velvet couch.

What was going on?

Was it just a nightmare brought on by pulling a late-night deadline?

I walked over to the desk on autopilot and glanced at the computer screen.

11:00.

My phone screen suddenly lit up.

[Don't make a sound.]

[At 11:10, you will die.]

This wasn't a dream!

Everything that just happened was real!

I had been sent back ten minutes in time!

Absolute terror gripped my heart in an instant, but I knew this was absolutely no time to break down.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

Call the cops? I didn't have a single bar of service in this damn penthouse.

Make a run for it? That dim, narrow hallway outside was a guaranteed, deadly ambush point.

What if he was standing right outside the door, staring dead through the peephole?

My brain spun wildly like an overloaded machine, cold sweat dripping steadily from my chin.

No. I couldn't run. This was my turf; I knew every inch of this place.

Hunkering down and turning this room into a fortress was my only way out.

If that killer was going to show up again in ten minutes, I had to survive!

I rushed to the front door and checked the deadbolt and security chain. Both secure.

Next, I gritted my teeth, throwing all of my body weight into shoving the heavy oak bookcase toward the entrance inch by inch.

The harsh groan of wood scraping against the floorboards was deafening in the silent room.

The bookcase wedged tight against the door.

Not stopping there, I hauled over two chairs and a coffee table, barricading the entrance entirely.

Sweating bullets and with my heart hammering in my chest, I finally stepped back.

11:05.

Five minutes left.

I darted into the kitchen, yanked the sharpest boning knife from the block, and gripped it tight with both hands. I backed into the deepest corner of the room, pressing my spine completely flush against the wall. No one could ambush me from behind.

My eyes were locked dead-center on the barricaded door.

The second anyone tried to bust through, I'd know instantly.

YOWWW—!!!

Barnaby suddenly leaped from the couch, letting out that same bloodcurdling shriek from before.

His eyes were locked dead onto the empty air straight in front of me.

11:09.

I held my breath, my hands trembling slightly from gripping the knife so hard.

There was no sound from the hallway. Not even footsteps.

No sign of the lock being picked, either.

Had my defense actually worked?

Did the killer decide it was too much trouble and back off?

But the exact second that thought crossed my mind, a sudden chill hit the back of my neck.

Wait!

I was pressed flush against the wall!

How could there be a cold draft coming from behind me?!

I whipped my head around.

Where there should have been a solid wall, a hidden door now stood ajar!

And the killer, dressed in black and wearing a face mask, was standing absolutely silently behind it, clutching a dripping dagger.

He stared down at me, his eyes filled with a condescending mockery.

Like he was watching a rat struggling pointlessly in a trap.

"No—"

The blade flashed again.

This time, it pierced straight through my heart.

Agony struck, and I collapsed into a pool of my own blood in total despair.

Staring at that heavily barricaded front door, only one thought remained in my fading mind: He never came through the front door.

11:10.

Darkness swallowed me once more.