Page 23 of Stranger Danger

Giddiness crawls up my throat like vomit. Every part of my body is buzzing in a way I’ve never felt before. I can feel each strand of hair on my head. My arms. My legs. It’s like someone turned me into static electricity and I zap across the hall at breakneck speed.

And there he is.

My pen pal.

Covered head-to-toe in black like the picture-perfect serial killer he is.

His back is turned to me, hands held out at his sides like he’s going in for a football tackle. A thin belt dangles from one clenched fist.

The dude darts to the left, then the right, and my pen pal shifts on his feet an inch or two. Then the dude glances up at me.

“Help,” he croaks. “You—you gotta help me.”

You are in dirty boxers and a T-shirt in fucking winter. Nuh-uh.

“Please. C-call the cops, or get my neighbor.”

He makes a mad dash toward me—toward the open door—and my friend’s fist slams into his throat hard enough that I hear it. Wet and sharp. Exactly like the grass outside. The dude collapses into a goddamn Jell-O heap, but my friend doesn’t look back at me. He puts one foot on the dudes’s chest and presses down until there’s a sharp crack.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and I don’t fucking want to. I want to hold this feeling until it burns, until I’m so far gone “Crowd” Ira can’t find “his” way back.

Finally finally finally.

My pen pal’s shoulders twitch beneath the black fabric. Then he turns.

The only thing I can see under the ski mask are his eyes. Blue or green or grey—I can’t tell in the dark, but he’s looking at me like I’m goddamn nightmare fuel. They widen, and his hand tightens on the belt until the leather creaks.

Goosebumps explode down my arms when I lift my hand and wave.

Just once.

My throat’s too tight to speak, and the butterflies rampaging inside my stomach are intense. I might actually puke if I open my mouth.

Hi, friend.

I missed you.

Beckett

Why the hell is there a rabbit in my house?

I’ve spent three weeks locked in realtor hell trying to find this place, and some crayon-colored tattooed Easter bunny waltzes in at the last second?

No.

This is unacceptable.

I’m going to blow a gasket and kill him, too, if he comes one step closer.

Who wears bright pink parachute pants to break into someone’s house? Who wears a sleeveless top when it’s twenty-eight degrees outside? It’s the most extreme version of nonsense my brain can handle right now.

The pinks aren’t even in the same color family!

Commit to a palette, you neon menace.

I shake my head hard enough to rearrange the gray matter inside and turn back to Henry.

It’s like amateur night, all over again.