Chapter 4

The pale morning light cut through the grime on the bedroom window. Alissa's eyes snapped open exactly at six o'clock.

Her internal clock was flawless, a remnant of years of grueling training camps.

She lay perfectly still, listening. Outside, the engine of Kristopher's sedan roared to life. The tires crunched over the gravel driveway as he and Ainsley headed into town for work.

The house fell into a heavy, empty silence.

Alissa pushed herself up. Her legs still trembled, but the deep, paralyzing weakness from yesterday had slightly receded.

She walked into the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes. She found half a slice of stale, hard toast on the counter. She chewed it mechanically, forcing it down her dry throat with a glass of lukewarm tap water.

She needed calories, and she needed her weapon.

Alissa opened the back door and stepped out into the crisp autumn air. She wore a thin, oversized gray sweater that swallowed her frail frame. A sudden gust of wind made her shiver violently.

She walked slowly toward the low wooden fence that separated the Knox property from the McCoys'.

In the neighboring yard, Martha McCoy, a woman with a crown of silver hair and a thick floral apron, was watering her tomato vines.

Martha heard the rustle of dry grass and turned. When she saw Alissa clinging to the fence, looking pale and fragile, she immediately dropped the green rubber hose.

"Oh, you poor dear," Martha breathed, wiping her wet hands on her apron as she hurried over to the fence.

Alissa instantly adjusted her posture. She let her shoulders slump forward. She widened her eyes and forced her lower lip to tremble slightly. She crafted a smile that was equal parts brave and broken.

"Morning, Mrs. McCoy," Alissa whispered, her voice raspy.

Martha's eyes filled with maternal worry. "You wait right there, sweetie."

Martha rushed into her house. Two minutes later, she returned carrying a steaming ceramic bowl of thick chicken noodle soup and two warm, buttered dinner rolls.

Alissa reached over the fence, taking the hot bowl with both hands. The heat seeping through the ceramic into her freezing fingers was pure heaven.

"Thank you," Alissa said, her voice genuinely thick with gratitude.

She took a bite of the roll and a sip of the rich, salty broth. The calories hit her bloodstream like a jolt of electricity.

As she ate, Alissa kept her eyes downcast, but her peripheral vision was locked on Martha's open kitchen window.

Sitting on the windowsill, lightly dusted with flour, was a black, rectangular object. An old, portable cassette recorder.

Alissa swallowed the last piece of bread. She looked down at the empty bowl, her fingers tracing the rim nervously. She let out a shaky breath.

"Is something wrong, Alissa?" Martha asked gently, leaning against the fence.

Alissa looked up, her eyes wide and fearful. "Mrs. McCoy... I think I'm losing my mind."

Martha frowned. She had heard the vicious rumors Ainsley spread around town about her sister's mental instability.

"Nonsense, child," Martha said softly.

"I keep forgetting things," Alissa lied, her voice cracking perfectly. "Conversations. Things that happen. I'm so scared I'm going crazy. I just... I want to record my days. Like a diary. So I can prove to myself that I'm real."

Martha's face softened with profound pity. "Oh, honey."

"I saw your tape recorder," Alissa whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the window. "Could I please borrow it? Just for a few days?"

Martha didn't hesitate for a single second. She turned, walked to the window, and grabbed the black plastic device.

She brought it to the fence, along with two brand-new AA batteries she pulled from her apron pocket.

"You take this, Alissa. You use it as long as you need," Martha said firmly, pressing the recorder into Alissa's hands.

Alissa clutched the device to her chest. She let a single, calculated tear slip down her cheek. She bowed her head in thanks.

The moment Alissa stepped back into the shadows of her own hallway, the tear dried. The trembling stopped. Her posture straightened.

She walked into her bedroom and sat on the bed.

She popped open the battery compartment, slid the batteries in, and pressed the play button.

A harsh, static hiss filled the room. The tape inside the cassette was loose, causing the spools to catch and drag.

Alissa frowned. A mechanical failure during the operation was unacceptable.

She opened the cassette door, pulled the tape out, and grabbed a yellow pencil from the desk drawer.

She inserted the hexagonal end of the pencil into the tape's gear. She frowned at the archaic piece of plastic, her modern tactical mind briefly struggling with the outdated technology. Relying on a vague memory from an old movie she had watched during a training camp, she awkwardly but accurately twisted the pencil, manually winding the tape tight and fixing the tension.

She put it back in and pressed record. She snapped her fingers near the microphone, then played it back. The sharp crack of her snap echoed perfectly.

The weapon was ready.

Alissa tore a small piece of paper from a notebook. She picked up a pen and carefully mimicked the looping, cursive handwriting from the note under her mattress.

Tonight at ten. Under the old oak tree in the back woods. I brought what you want. - Little bird.

She folded the paper into a tight square. The trap was set. Now, she just had to wait for the rat to take the bait.