By Kevin O'Brien

Initially, the deaths appear random. a tender Portland couple brutally murdered in a video game long past awry...a Chicago lady who plummeted to her loss of life from an workplace aspiring screenwriter asphyxiated in his manhattan house. however the macabre souvenirs tv reporter Sydney Jordan gets trace at a connection that's either own and terrifying. After occasions in her personal lifestyles went fallacious, Sydney fled to Seattle along with her teenage son. yet rather than getting a clean commence, Sydney is stricken by unusual occurrences. a person is gazing, somebody who is aware her intimately...someone who is simply ready to play your next step in a twisted video game. She is his selected one. each homicide is an indication, and shortly, Sydney will comprehend why every one sufferer needed to undergo - and why she's the following in line.

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Was taking a dramatic turn in this old Lifetime Movie. She didn’t look very perky—or pretty—as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed, hooked up to a respirator. A tube tugged down one corner of her mouth, a nasty bruise marred her forehead, and her hair looked greasy. The respirator made a constant whoosh-whooshwhoosh sound. The eleven-year-old boy she’d saved from the fire before the last commercial now maneuvered himself in his wheelchair to her bedside. It was night, and no one else occupied the hospital room with them.

Um, maybe…” “Then you know about it,” Sydney said. “I wanted to say something sooner. But the property manager would have killed me if I’d blabbed. They’ve had a hard time trying to rent out that place…” In a hushed tone, his mother started to describe some of their night visits. From his open bedroom window, Eli could only hear snippets of what she was saying. He peeked past the edge of his curtain down to the cobblestone courtyard, where his mother and Sally stood by Sally’s front door. He couldn’t see their faces, just the tops of their heads.

Behind him, a cupboard door was open. A box from the shelf lay on its side, and its contents had spilt onto the counter below. Sydney could see it was a box of Minute Rice. A few grains still trickled from the box’s side spout onto the pile of rice that had formed on the green Formica counter. “What in God’s name…” she murmured. Sydney turned and gazed down the hallway at the back door. It was closed, and the chain-lock set. She poked her head into the powder room, to the left of the back entrance.

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