On the other side of the wall, the footsteps quickened, came closer. Marisa crab-walked back. I held out my hand to stop her. Any noise…
Behind me, the needle-thin sound of air let out of a balloon. The closet door was open.
Marisa pulled her knees up to her chest and pressed her mouth against them.
The guy was knocking on the walls of the closet. But he soon discovered the little door and poked it tentatively.
I concentrated: heavy, weight-bearing thoughts.
He pushed against the door. I could feel the pressure at my lower back.
I looked at Marisa and calculated how long it would take the guy to get through. She could get through Oona’s closet and down to the pub to get help. I could stomp and kick at fingers, and keep him on the other side. He’d never get his shoulders through, right?
A man’s voice barked something angry. The sound of his voice was so close, I felt it inside my chest.
Did I know that voice?
Marisa closed her eyes. She knew it.
We waited in silence, breathing shallow. Afraid to move.
Marisa opened her eyes, and we stared at each other. I shook my head slowly, picturing a foot reared back.
And then the world exploded.
45
The little door jarred into my back.
I dissociated for a second, left my body behind, and watched myself hang on, shut down a yelp of pain, swallow it, absorb it into my soul rather than let the guy know we were there.
The dust motes in the air all held their breath along with me.
And then I was returned, to pain, stars and sparkles in my eyes.
I tasted something at the back of my throat. Mortality. The tendrils of tattooed vines at my wrist pulsed, and I stared at them. That was greenery needled into my skin, pain I’d endured, willingly. I could tolerate this, too. Blood rushed through my ears, too loud.
I counted to myself. At thirty, I heard something that might be footsteps, then at forty, a distant floorboard complaining.
Retreat.
He would check the other bedroom, the bathroom. He’d make sure.
My back stung. I had a throbbing headache, even though I was sure my head was no longer attached to my neck. I could feel the reverb of that kick down to my fingertips.
I counted. I didn’t know what I was counting to.
He might come back and try the door again. I stayed in place. I wasn’t sure I could stand, anyway.
I’d lost count but I started again. Was that the front door? Were those footsteps, distant, on the stairs? Down? He’d be checking the alley. He’d be jumping into that truck, still running, and getting away.
“I think he’s gone,” Marisa whispered.
He’d be driving away. He’d get away with what he’d done.
Marisa was saying something, her voice distorted. “… for getting me out of there. For pulling me through when I got wedged in.”
He would have killed us. I had no doubt. He’d already killed Joey. He would have killed us.
