Stacy Roberts POV
My mother didn’t panic.
“Stacy… are you absolutely sure Max is dead?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and metallic. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking so violently I could barely keep the receiver pressed to my cheek. My knuckles were white, stained with a dark, terrifying crimson that was already beginning to dry and flake under the harsh fluorescent lights of the basement. A few feet away from me, sprawled across the cold concrete floor, lay Max. His body was unnaturally still, a crumpled heap of limbs and torn clothing. The heavy iron fire poker I had swung in blind, desperate self-defense rested a few inches from his limp right hand.
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling as dry as sandpaper. I opened my mouth to speak, to utter the word *ye
