“Almost…there…” I wedged the flathead against stripped screws, my makeshift ladder—an overturned feed bucket—wobbling beneath wet socks. Every flicker of illumination from the remaining security lights felt like a homing beacon.They’ll see. He’ll see.The mantra coiled tighter with each gust, snapping the oak branches overhead. This paranoia had only gotten worse in the past few months. I didn’t enjoy living in fear, shouldn’t have had to. If I had parents who cared more about me than their bottom line, I wouldn’t have had to.
Metal screeched as the bulb housing finally gave. Darkness swallowed the eastern corner of the garage apartment just as hailbegan pelting the corrugated roof. Triumph burned acidic in my throat. Finally, this was working. Hope Mr. Baucaum wouldn’t be pissed that I undid these, but why should he? Not his apartment. I didn’t hurt anything.
A sizzle-pop overhead. The world dropped into black. Dammit.
I froze mid-reach for the next light, arm outstretched toward nothingness. No amber glow from the coach lights. No humming streetlamp at the property’s edge. Just the keening wind and the sudden, suffocating awareness of being silhouetted against a dead apartment.
“No.No.” The screwdriver slipped from trembling fingers. Hail stung my scalp as I scrambled off the bucket, socks slopping through wet grass. Three stumbling steps toward the exterior stairs when thunder detonated directly overhead—a cannon crack splitting the night.
I ran.
Rain needled my face as I took the steps two at a time, cardigan snagging on the wood rail. The deadbolt resisted twice before surrendering, my shoulder slamming the swollen doorframe hard enough to leave tomorrow’s bruise.
“Three locks.” Breath sawed between chattering teeth as I twisted each deadbolt. “Three windows.” Palm slapped every sash handle—bedroom, bathroom, living room. “Solid metal door.” Forehead pressed against it as another lightning burst illuminated the room in strobe-flashes.
Alarm system. Right. The alarm system.
I fumbled toward the breaker box beside the fridge. Dripping sleeves left dark Rorschach patterns on the wood floors as I flipped switches with numb fingers. Nothing. Not even the faint digital chirp of resetting electronics. There’s a storm. Transformers blow. It happens.
“Okay. Okay, think.” My reflection in the microwave door showed a drowned alley cat—black dyed hair looking darker thanever, bangs plastered to furrowed brows. “Candles in jars around the rooms. Lighter, kitchen drawer.”
A matte black lighter from Pearl’s Bar caught on the first strike. Flame sputtered as I touched it to wicks—vanilla-scented from the Dollar General. Shadows reared up along the walls like restless phantoms.
Living room first. Then bedroom. The flame trembled as I passed the double-pane window overlooking the driveway. Something moved in the periphery. Is that a shadow detaching itself from the swaying pecan trees?
I spun, lighter raised like a talisman.
Nothing but my own warped reflection in the rain-lashed glass.
“Stop.” The command bounced off beadboard walls, too thin to convince. “You checked the windows. You—”
The candle in my hand dripped hot wax onto my thumb. I hissed, nearly dropping it. Shadows deepened in the corners where feeble light couldn’t reach. Every creak in the apartment became footsteps. Every moan of wind through the eaves whispered,found you.
I’d barely been here a day. Spoke to Mr. Baucaum a couple of times. I should call him. Desperation fueled the next three candles until the bedroom glowed like a séance circle. Still, the dark pressed in—thick and liquid at the edges of the rug, pooling beneath the dresser.
I backed toward the living room, sopping sock feet soaking floorboards. Twenty-seven steps to make the circuit. Front door handle jiggled. Windows rattled. Three locks held.
Wandering back around.“Calm down, Juliet.”
The bathroom mirror showed a stranger’s face—smudged mascara bleeding into hollows beneath eyes that darted like spooked livestock. I peeled wet fabric from shuddering skin, each layer hitting the tile with the weight of discarded identities. Mylast silk camisole from Neiman Marcus clung stubbornly to wet skin.
A Sponge Bob sweatshirt bought at a Dollar General waited on the bathroom counter. It was surprisingly soft as I slipped it over my towel-turbaned hair. A complete mismatch for the beautiful silk panties I’d wear after drying myself off. It didn’t matter. I’d cover those panties with a baggy pair of flannel pajama pants.
I finished blotting my dripping hair with a fluffy towel and pulled it into a messy bun atop my head. My heart stopped when I swore I saw the vinyl shower curtain sway ever so much. Five seconds staring at floral vinyl until logic overrode instinct.No movement—just my imagination.
Bronc had mentioned the fridge was powered by propane, so it still worked. I wasn’t really hungry, but I knew I had to eat something, and I found the perfect thing—an individual yogurt cup, strawberry swirl. That actually sounded yummy.
Candlelight carved hollows in the living room walls as I settled on the couch. The first spoonful burst tart-sweet across my tongue. Somewhere between strawberry and third bite, memory ambushed me—Bronc’s hand brushing my elbow when he kept me from falling at the bus terminal. His touch felt electric against my skin, even through my sweater. I wondered how much older he was than me.
Rain lashed the roof as I curled finally dry socked feet beneath me, still thinking about him. Everything about him was different. It’s ridiculous. I’m a child compared to him. But being next to him had felt safe. Why? The way he looks? He is beautiful. His scent? Yes—scent? Like deserts and earth and leather. Okay, that’s weird. But it’s true. I’m going insane, clearly.
The spoon clattered against the empty plastic container. Wind howled through the eaves, carrying phantom engine growls. Every muscle tensed. Waiting for headlights that never came.
Keys.
I bolted upright, the yogurt container rolling under the coffee table.
“No. Nononono—”
