Today’s the day. I’m going to drive over to my dad’s house while he’s in class to see if I can get my stuff back. Before I go, I drive to campus to make sure he’s there today. I spot his fancy Mercedes coupe in his usual spot and know he won’t be home. Before I can change my mind, I speed over to his house on Timberland Road. It sits back from the road, secluded on a wooded lot. This wasn’t the house I grew up in. No, that one was much more modest and closer to campus.
He boughtthishouse after he got tenure and a lot of attention for his—my—writing. Hell, Mom didn’t even get to live here.
I have a room here, though. He set it up with all of my old furniture from the little house. He painted the walls pink and bought a fluffy white comforter for the top of the bed. It’s weird that he went to all that trouble and I’ve never slept a night in the place.
No matter.
I pull in front of one of the four garages. Attempting to put it into Park proves difficult since my gearshift isn’t cooperating, so I put the thing into Neutral and press on the emergency brake.
At the front door, I ring the bell. I might as well cover my bases. When no one answers, I try the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Taking out the key he gave me years ago, I press it into the lock and hold my breath, hoping it still works.
It does.
Pushing the door open, I sigh in relief that I made it inside. But that’s short lived because the loudest fucking siren slash alarm sounds. It’s so loud I have to cover my ears. I search left, then right for a control panel for the security system, but there isn’t one. My ears still covered, I run into the adjacent dining room, looking for anything that will help me shut the damn thing off.
My God. It’s so loud!
Turning left, I race down a short hallway into my father’s office. A room he calls his “study.” Eye roll. How pretentious, right?
Pushing open the french doors with one hand, I quickly cover my ears again. I scan the room and spot a keypad on his desk. Racing over, I stare down at a control box with the name Dynamic Security printed prominently at the top. Blinking at the alphanumeric keypad, I mutter, “What’s the combination, Dad?”
Here’s hoping it’s a four-digit code. I choose to press in his birthday: 0871.
Nothing. The alarm is still screaming. Next I try: 081971 but it won’t let me add two additional numbers. A four-digit code it is.
Next, I try Mom’s middle name: Ruth
Damn. It didn’t work.
I try my birthday: 0796
“Fuck!” I scream. But nobody can hear me. It’s too loud.
Shit. What code would he use? He’s an egomaniac, so it has to be something related to himself. Ithasto be.
I stare at the controller. “Think, Daisy. Think.”
My God, the noise is so loud and piercing it’s painful. Maybe I should just leave. Or I could put on some headphones or something. Anything to block out the sound.
I rotate on the spot looking at his office shelves, filing cabinets, the top of his desk, and the other furniture. Nothing here to cover my ears, unless…. Pulling open the top drawer in his desk, I push the contents around but don’t spy earplugs or headphones. Next, I move to the drawers that run down the right side of his mahogany behemoth of a desk. Searching the top two results in nothing usable. However, just as I’m about to search the third drawer down, two things happen. One, I hear sirens sounding from somewhere outside his office window, and two, I spy something unexpected in the drawer.
Reaching in, I push aside a few papers and then hear “Freeze.” I look up and see a cop standing in the open doorway, gun drawn and pointed at me, and looking quite angry. My first thought is how loud he must’ve just yelled, “Freeze,” for me to hear him over this godforsaken alarm.
Why does my dad need an alarm system, anyway?
In the end, I do what I’m told. I freeze.
“Put your hands up,” he shouts.
Once again I do as he says.
Before I can utter a word, my arms are wrenched behind my back and something is wrapped around my wrists. I hear a zipping sound and know I’m being cuffed with zip ties. They’re so tight, I feel them digging into the skin around my wrists.
Once I’m cuffed, the officer takes my wrists in hand and pulls me out of the office and down the hallway until we’re outside. I’m so relieved to be away from the loud alarm that I sigh with relief.
He stops at a squad car, and I see several other police vehicles make their way up Dad’s long driveway. I keep expecting this guy to ask me who I am and what I’m doing at the house, but other than “Freeze” and “Put your hands up,” there’s been nothing.
Several car doors open, then slam shut. Footsteps approach from behind me. “Name?” someone to my left asks.
