Switched by R.L. Stine Page A

the truth.
    I started up the driveway, keeping in the shadows, away from the square of light that washed onto the lawn from the porch. As I made my way past the frontwalk and along the side of the house, crickets began to chirp shrilly, as if warning Kent I was coming.
    Their whistle grew louder and louder. It sounded deafening to me. I heard every sound, clearer than normal. The scrape of my sneakers on the driveway. The rustle of the wind through the trees along the drive.
    As I crept onto the back stoop, the crickets stopped their chirping, as suddenly as they had started. I peered into the window on the kitchen door. A dim light over the stove provided the only brightness.
    I turned the knob and pushed. The kitchen door slid open easily.
    Leaning on the knob, I pushed the door open all the way, and slipped into the house. The linoleum floor squeaked under my weight.
    I stopped. Listened.
    I could hear music in the front of the house. Loud rock music from the den.
    Good, I thought. It probably means Kent is home alone. He wouldn’t be playing the music so loud downstairs if his parents were home.
    My eyes darted around the kitchen. They stopped at the knife holder above the white Formica counter.
    I crossed the room, studied the knives in the holder, and pulled out a long-bladed kitchen knife.
    I’ll scare him with this, I told myself.
    I’ll raise the blade high. I’ll back him into a corner.
    I’ll frighten him into talking. I’ll make him thinkthat I plan to use it on him—if he doesn’t tell me the truth about Lucy. If he doesn’t tell me all that he knows.
    The knife felt heavy and uncomfortable in my hand. I adjusted my hand around the handle. I always teased Lucy about her tiny hands. I always told her she’d have baby hands for the rest of her life.
    Now I wished I had my own hands back. My big, long-fingered hands were stronger. They would have held the kitchen knife more comfortably.
    I took a deep breath, edging my way to the front of the house. Thinking hard about how I would play this.
    I’ll act crazy, I decided. I’ll act out of control. I’ll raise the knife. I’ll scream at him. I’ll make him tell me where Lucy went.
    When Kent has told me what I need to know, I’ll apologize, I told myself. I’ll ask for his help. I’ll confess how eager I am to get my body back.
    He’ll understand. He’ll help me. I know he will.
    The music blared louder as I made my way along the front hallway.
    I raised the knife and stepped into the den. “Kent? It’s me. Nicole. I have to talk—”
    I lowered the knife to my side as I stared down at the gruesome sight on the den floor.
    Kent’s body lay on its back on the tile floor, arms and legs outstretched.
    His head had been sliced off.
    Puddles of bright red blood had streamed from the neck.
    The head stood upright a few feet from the body, propped against the leather couch.
    The mouth was frozen open in a wide O of horror. The blue eyes stared lifelessly up at me.

chapter

13
    T he room started to spin.
    I dropped onto the floor. Into a sitting position. I shut my eyes.
    When I opened them a few moments later, Kent’s blue eyes still stared at me. As I stared in horror, one eyelid slowly drooped, drooped until it closed, leaving Kent’s face with a hideous wink.
    I swallowed hard, forcing down my nausea.
    I shut my eyes. Blinked several times. Hoping, praying that when I looked back, the head would have disappeared. Would have returned to Kent’s body.
    Sobbing, I raised myself to my knees. “Kent . . .” I murmured his name.
    The head had been sliced off. A jagged line across the throat.
    The body stretched out calmly over the floor, as if taking a nap. The head stared blankly at its own body.
    First the Kramers. And now Kent.
    Had Lucy murdered them all?
    It made no sense. No sense at all.
    Without realizing it, I had climbed to my feet.
    I turned