Three men stood outside my house, side by side, staring up at me through the window.
“What the hell?” I breathed out, trying to figure out what was going on.
Was this a joke?
They stood completely motionless, and I felt a chill spread up my arms at how they just stared at me.
What were they doing?
All three wore jeans and black combat boots, but as I stared into the black void of their eyes, I clenched my teeth together to keep my body from shaking.
The masks. The black hoodies and the masks.
I shook my head. No. It couldn’t be them. This was a joke.
The tallest stood on the left, wearing a slate-gray metallic-looking mask with claw marks deforming the right side of his face.
The one in the middle was shorter, looking up at me through his white-and-black mask with a red stripe running down the left side of his face, which was also ripped and gouged.
And the one on my right, whose completely black mask blended with his black hoodie, so that you couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were, was the one who finally made my chest shake.
I backed up, away from the window and tried to catch my breath as I dashed for my phone. Pressing 1 on the landline, I waited for the security office, which sat only minutes down the road, to pick up.
“Mrs. Fane?” a man answered.
“Mr. Ferguson?” I breathed out, inching back over to my windows. “It’s Rika. Could you send a car up to—?”
But then I stopped, seeing that the driveway was now empty. They were gone.
What?
I darted my eyes left and then right, getting right up to the table and leaning over to see if they were near the house. Where the hell did they go?
I remained silent, listening for any sign of anyone around the house, but everything was still and quiet.
“Miss Fane?” Mr. Ferguson called. “Are you still there?”
I opened my mouth, stammering, “I…I thought I saw something…outside my windows.”
“We’re sending a car up now.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”And I hung up the phone, still staring out the window.
It couldn’t be them.
But those masks. They were the only ones who wore those masks.
Why would they come here? After three years, why would they come here?
Three Years Ago
“NOAH?” I FELL BACK, leaning against the wall next to my best friend’s locker as he retrieved a book between classes. “Do you have a date for Winterfest?”
He scrunched up his face. “That’s like two months away, Rika.”
“I know. I’m getting in while the getting’s good.”
He smiled, slamming his locker shut and leading the way down the hall. “So you’re asking me on a date then?” he teased in his cocky voice. “I knew you always wanted me.”
I rolled my eyes, following him, since my classroom was in the same direction. “Could you make this easier, please?”
But all I heard was his snort.
Winterfest was a dance like Sadie Hawkins. Girls ask guys, and I wanted to take the safe route by asking a friend.
Students scurried around us, rushing to their classes, and I held the strap of my bag on my shoulder as I grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Please?” I pleaded.
But he narrowed his eyes, looking worried. “Are you sure Trevor’s not going to kick my ass? Judging from the way he’s on you all the time, I’m surprised he hasn’t GPS’d you.”
That was a good point. Trevor would be mad I wasn’t asking him, but I only wanted friendship, and he wanted more. I didn’t want to lead him on.
I guessed I could chalk up my disinterest in Trevor to knowing him my entire life—he was too familiar, kind of like family—but I’d also known his older brother my entire life, and my feelings for him weren’t at all familial.
“Come on. Be a buddy,” I urged, nudging his shoulder. “I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He stopped at my next class, which was on the way to his, and spun around, pinning me with a hard look. “Rika, if you don’t want to ask Trevor, then ask someone else.”
I let out a sigh and averted my eyes, sick of this conversation.
“You’re asking me, because it’s safe,” he argued. “You’re beautiful, and any guy would be thrilled to go out with you.”
“Of course they would be.” I smiled sarcastically. “So say yes then.”
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at me.
Noah liked to draw conclusions about me. About why I never dated or why he thought I shied away from this or that, and as good of a friend as he was, I wished he’d stop already. I just didn’t feel comfortable.
I reached up, rubbing a nervous hand over my neck—over the pale, thin scar I got when I was thirteen.
In the car accident that killed my father.
I saw him watching me, and I dropped my hand, knowing what he was thinking.
The scar ran diagonally, about two inches long, on the left side of my neck, and although it had faded with time, I still felt like it was the first thing people noticed about me. There were always questions and pitiful expressions from family and friends, not to mention the jerk comments I got in junior high from girls laughing at me. After a while, it started to feel like an appendage, big and something I was always aware of.
“Rika,” he lowered his voice, his brown eyes gentle, “baby, you’re beautiful. Long blonde hair, legs that no guy in this school can ignore, and the prettiest blue eyes in town. You’re gorgeous.”
The one minute bell rang, and I shifted in my flats, gripping the strap of my bag tighter.