I staggered back. I started to choke. Couldn’t breathe.
Mom was lying on her back, arms at her sides, legs outstretched. Her hair had fallen over her face, covered it like a blanket.
But all I could stare at was the gaping red hole in her neck. The skin had been torn open. Blue veins hung out from the deep hole in her throat.
But there was no blood. I saw a tiny brown puddle of dried blood under her head. But her throat . . . her ripped-open throat . . . the gaping pink wound . . . It had no blood.
I heard a sound behind me. Swung around and saw Zane on his knees, vomiting on the floor. Loud eruptions of his horror, his head bobbing up and down.
I had an urge to drop beside my mother, to hug her, to hold her. But that vanished quickly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her torn skin, her open throat. It all glowed so brightly under the kitchen lights, as if it wasn’t real.
“Mom . . .” I struggled to breathe. My chest felt as if a tight net had closed around it. A wave of dizziness made me grab the wall. “Mom . . .”
And then I glimpsed something move beyond the twin stoves at the far end of the kitchen. A man!
“Hey—” I choked out. I stumbled around my mom and took a step toward him.
He was weird-looking. He had spiky white-blond hair. His face had no color at all. He wore a black shirt and black pants, which made him look even paler.
“Hey—stop!” I uttered.
He raised a hand, as if to wave me away. He narrowed almost-colorless eyes at me.
My chest began to heave. I could feel the anger burning through me. I clenched my fists and moved toward him.
“Stay back, kid.” His voice was deep and raspy. “Stay back. I’m warning you.” He tensed his body, preparing for a fight.
He killed my mother. Now he’s warning me?
The rage burst up from deep inside me, a feeling I’d never had before. I opened my mouth in an animal roar.
I lowered my shoulder like a football running back and charged across the kitchen. A large metal skillet rested on a wooden table. I swiped it up and raised it as I ran.
The man’s weird gray eyes opened wide in surprise as I dove at him. He was pinned against the wall.
“Stay back!” This time his scream sounded desperate.
With another angry animal cry, I raised the skillet high. “You killed my mother!” My voice came out in a shrill screech.
I swung it at his head. Connected. It made a loud thud as it smashed into his face. The man’s eyes rolled up and he let out a low grunt.
I swung the skillet again and caught the back of his head as he went down. He crumpled in a heap, legs crossed beneath him, then toppled onto his stomach, arms splayed, eyes shut. He didn’t move.
My chest felt about to burst. I tried to take a deep breath, but everything felt closed up. I made horrible wheezing sounds, struggling to catch my breath.
The pan fell from my hand and clattered loudly to the floor. The man didn’t move. I could see him breathing. But he was out cold.
Was that really me? Did I really do this?
Crazy thoughts.
I spun around. Zane was still on his knees, wiping off his face with the front of his T-shirt.
“I got him!” I cried. “I got the killer.”
Zane raised his phone. “Already dialed 911,” he said. “They’re sending the cops. They’re on their way.”
My legs felt weak. I grabbed the wooden tabletop to hold myself up.
“Why?” I cried to Zane. “Why? Why did he kill my mom?”
