Chapter 5 I can’t be an accomplice

Parker's pov

I run into the darkness like the devil is on my heels when the sickos finally let me go, with Zane’s voice ringing in my ear. 

“Run as fast as you can before I change my mind”  

And that’s what I did, almost tripping over my feet and branches but I don’t stop until the house comes into view.

I slip through the unlocked back door, taking the stairs two at a time and not stopping until I’m safely inside my bedroom, locking the door firmly behind me.

I bolt straight into the adjoining bathroom, switching on the light with a trembling hand before forcing myself to look at my reflection in the mirror. Dark blood is smeared across my neck, matted into my hair, coating my l hands, and ruining the entire front of my clothes. I look like I just barely survived a horrific episode of “The walking dead” zombie movie, making me realize with a jolt of pure terror that the sicko was completely right. 

I look like I murdered the man myself. 

A wave of bile rises in the back of my throat, but I push it down as I aggressively peel off my ruined hoodie, my torn top, and my still-unbuttoned trousers, tossing the blood-soaked mess onto the floor before tugging the fallen strap of my black lace bra back up over my shoulder. 

Moving over to the sink, I turn on the faucet and thrust my forearm beneath the cold stream, instantly hissing in pain as the water rushes over the fresh cut. 

Who knows what kind of bacteria was on that blade he used. I need to find a way to stop this bleeding. I once watched my mother sew up her druggie boyfriend's jagged wound on our kitchen table and I passed out then.

I was only nine years old.

Shaking off the memory, I step back into the bedroom to grab a silk scarf from my bag, wrapping it tightly around my forearm and pulling the knot flush against my skin to create a makeshift tourniquet.

I sink down onto the floor, hugging my injured arm. 

What am I to do? They know I know their names but the one named Zane doesn't seem the least bothered, believing I will never turn them in, which has been my plan before they literally made me part of their murdering cult. 

Now I have blood on my hands. They also know my name and where I live here. 

I run my hand through my matted head as fresh tears run down my face. I didn’t get to see their faces because of the light but they seemed young. Will they be going to the same school as me? Will they fuck with me? Definitely. They seem like the sort. I have to show them I can run their fucking boy group into the ground. I’m smarter than them. 

“Bastards. Sick bastards,” I mutter as I stand up. 

I go back to the bathroom going through the cupboard for medical supplies. I can’t let Celeste see this, besides, what will I tell the hospital staff happened? 

I find the kit, opening it and grabbing a butterfly plaster and glue. I untie the blood-soaked scarf from my arm, grabbing a clean hand towel to run under the cold tap before starting to clean the wound. It takes a frustratingly long time before the skin is completely clean and as soon as the area is prepped, I squeeze a few drops of the medical glue directly into the open cut to seal it shut.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I cry out, doubling over in pain as the chemical bond burns, forcing me to hold my throbbing arm tightly against my chest.

Just as the intense sting begins to dull into a manageable ache, the sound of laughter drifts through my open bedroom window and I instantly kill the bathroom light. I slip quietly back into the bedroom, putting off that light too, making sure every single corner is completely pitch-black before I creep toward the window.

I see their flashlights and see one of the guys standing at the back of the car by the truck while the second one gets into the driver's seat. The one standing by the truck is Zane, I can feel it. Probably putting his bag and evidence away. He shuts the truck and turns towards my direction, keeping his flashlight down. 

My breath hitches and I feel cold dread crawl down my spine. I know he can’t see me with my room dark but it feels like it. And I’m very aware that I’m standing there in nothing but my black bra and matching panties. 

He shuts the flashlight off and after a while I hear his car door open and close. Then the car starts and they drive away.

I run back to the bathroom, turn on the light and put back my blood-soaked clothes despite the stomach-turning stickiness of the fabric. I then grab a clean polo and shirt and slip out of my bedroom, creeping through the house, toward the garage.

Inside the dimly lit structure,there is a matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon, a metallic grey Porsche, an Aston Martin, and a dark blue Range Rover. I ignore them all as I march over to the storage cupboards, rummaging through them until I find exactly what I’m looking for. I grab the containers and a flashlight and head out, marching back up the hill towards the cemetery with a purpose.

Nobody blackmails me.

Nobody!!