He wasn't there. Lacy spotted a note on the kitchen counter that the small light illuminated. Her feet shuffled forward and she grabbed the piece of paper.
Got called out. I'll be home soon.
All my love, dad
Lacy was used to Sam having to leave late or in the middle of the night for work, but that was before. Now that she was alone in her house, her anxiety increased. Immediately, Lacy ran to make sure the front door was locked. It was. Her father had the keys. Then, she made sure the windows were locked and the curtains were closed. She went back upstairs, but not before grabbing a knife from the utensil drawer and taking it with her.
Eleven Thirty PM blinked red on her alarm clock. Her clothes stuck to her skin because of the sweat. Lacy made sure her window was locked and her curtains were closed before going into the bathroom, the knife still in her hand.
She sees it all when she closes her eyes: the kidnapping, the sound of her own screams, the screams from her friends, the feeling of chains cutting off her circulation, the excruciating pain from her mouth being stitched closed. It's a nightmare you can't wake up from, and in that nightmare is where she meets her friends again. Daphne and Kayla, gone long and far, hug her like they never left, but it's not them, and she knows it's not them. Daphne's body is mutilated, her eyes missing, and Kayla's lips are torn off her face. They're covered in blood and it covers her clothes.
Her body continued to shiver under the scolding hot water. It's the feeling of sickness with no symptoms, of throwing ice into a fire. The longer she stands in the shower, the more Lacy pays attention to the water dripping down her bare body and she's able to notice things about herself that she's been trying to ignore. Five foot ten with long legs but chunky thighs. Skinny wrists but thick upper arms. Her stomachs's not flat, it pudges out in the slightest, most noticed way. Hip dips. She runs her fingers along the curvatures of her body. Lacy's never been insecure about how she looks. It's an athlete's body, she's always told herself, though she does always recall a specific moment in the ninety grade when Jackson told her that she needed to lose a few pounds (Lacy always reminds him the volleyball team has won more games than the lacrosse team).
But it's different this time because it's not her body anymore. It doesn't belong to her anymore. He drained her of her love for it, of her nurturing nature to take care of it. There's been too many hands on it to love it. Her body will never be Lydia's or Allison's or Erica's. It's simply a shell for her to live in.
Lacy doesn't look at herself in the mirror when she leaves the bathroom. She slips on new clothes and climbs into bed.
The sound of the doorbell going off freezes every bone in her body. Her blood runs cold. The chills return. Lacy stared at her closed bedroom door and her breathing quickens.
It goes off again.
It can't be Sam because he has the keys. She doesn't have any friends. Who else–no. No, no, no, no. Lacy can't move. She grabbed the knife and held it tightly in her hand.
There's a ring again.
What if it's somebody you know? Her mind asks her. Lacy tossed the covers off her body, slowly getting out of bed. A battle starts in her mind, one part of her yelling to stay in her bedroom while the other yells at her to go answer the door. She has 911 on speed dial. It was like a scene from a horror movie, a knife in one hand and her phone in the other, ready to call for help. 
Lacy forced herself to walk down the hallway, to walk down the stairs, and each step she took, the paralyzing fear that it could be Him on the other side of door crept deeper into her bones. The closer she got to the door, her mouth started to hurt, like the stitches returned. Her forehead dots with sweat again. Her hands clam up, almost causing her to drop the knife.