Brows drawn together in confusion, Fae nods. “Of course. Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, no, it’s just a little hiccup. But itistime-sensitive.”
I let her assume that another one of my clients is having a problem. It’s the most reasonable explanation, so I’m grateful that she takes the bait. Her eyes widen. And she nods.
“Oh, silly me. Talk to you soon!” she says, rushing to close the call.
As soon as the line goes dead, I realize that maybe I’ve made a huge mistake.
Because now I’m alone.
The blood drains from my face, and I feel cold all over.
Sleepy Ada didn’t send me a text an hour ago. I was on a call.
There isnoway I moved all of those boxes in my sleep.
I’d have bruises or dirty clothes, right?
Like a shot, I run into my room and dig into my hamper, desperate to figure this out. I’m having trouble breathing, and all I can think of is figuring out ifIdid this or not.
The clothes I wore yesterday, while obviously dirty, don’t show any signs that I even left the house, let alone walked to the garage and rooted around to dig out the Christmas decor. Henry can go out on his own and does unless we’re going for a walk. We didn’t yesterday.
With that yielding no evidence, I scurry back to my front door, where my most often worn shoes sit in their boot tray. My snow boots, which should be damp if I wore them out, are dry and clean. I haven’t needed to wear them out yet this season, but I’m pretty sure that even in my sleep, I’d have known that boots were the way to go last night in the light snow. Next to them, my sneakers are dry, and they’d be sopping if I’d worn them out.
Sinking to the ground, a hysterical giggle bursts out of me. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing I’ve found suggests that I left my cabin in the middle of the night, sleep-walked to mygarage in the snow, dug out a bunch of heavy boxes, and then carried them back to my porch. IknowI didn’t send a picture to myself an hour ago.
Who could have my number? For that matter, what is the likelihood that someone got my old numberandknows my new number?
Extremely, abysmally, unlikely, even in a small town.
Henry ambles over from where he’d been sleeping by the fireplace and flops down onto my lap. He’s not a service dog, but his weight still releases something in me, and I shatter. Tears plop onto his dark fur, but I’m not shaking as much as I might be otherwise because of him. He looks up at me with his sad, droopy eyes, and I release a wail. He deals withsomuch from me and gives me back even more.
Outside, the lighting shifts as a cloud passes over the sun, and I startle.
Fuck.
Anyone who walked by could see inside my house right now.
“Sorry, Henry.” I push him off and scramble around my house, closing all the blinds. “Computer, lights off!” I yell, and the house descends into darkness punctuated by the small slivers of light around the blinds. Tears are streaming down my face, and my racing thoughts make me feel dizzy.
He’s coming to get me.
I’ve finally lost it.
Nothing makes sense.
I should go home to Utah.
I can’t leave, or he’ll find me again.
I need to call the cops.
Why can’t I just let someone take care of me?
Why?
Which thoughts are reasonable? Which thoughts are unrealistic? I’ve lost touch at this point. I pour myself into bed, clothed, because right now it doesn’t matter. I’ll regret it when I’m sweating, but I just need compression as fast as possible.
