What had woken him?
He looked down to see Clara’s body half on top of his and her back rising and falling in steady succession.
The last few days, they’d fallen into this easy rhythm of living together. Cooking in her kitchen. Sleeping in her bed.
But it wasn’t Clara who’d woken him just now.
He scanned the bedroom, only the dim glow of the moon poking through the curtains giving him a bit of light.
Nothing was out of place in the bedroom. He checked the closed door, the eerie quiet loud in his ears.
Then a sound cut through the silence—the click of the front door closing.
Someone was in the house.
Gently, he shook Clara’s shoulder.
She moaned and scrunched her eyes.
He set his lips close to her ear, his voice barely a whisper. “Clara, I need you to wake up.”
She opened her eyes with a frown. “Holden?”
“There’s someone in the house.”
Her eyes popped open wide and she tried to sit up, but he gripped her shoulder, keeping her in place. “We need to be quiet. Go to the bathroom and lock yourself in.”
“What about you?” she asked.
Without making a sound, he reached into the side drawer where he’d stashed his gun, before looking back to Clara. “I’m armed.”
Her eyes flared with fear, but she pushed the blankets back and climbed out of bed.
He moved with Clara across the room, waiting for the soft click of the bathroom lock before crossing to the door.
Another noise sounded from the hall, this time the light shuffle of movement.
He slipped back into the man he’d been in the military, calling on his training and maintaining his calm.
Silently, he turned the knob and opened the bedroom door, his Glock immediately pointing around the hall and living area. Even in the darkness, he saw everything. The hall table. The couch. The mugs they’d left on the coffee table.
But no intruder.
He slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, his movement slow and deliberate. His bare feet didn’t make a sound against the wooden floorboards.
He was about to check Scarlett’s old room when he heard another shuffle, this time from the kitchen. Then the crackle of what sounded like plastic.
Quickly, he shifted to the opposite wall and stepped into the living room. When he reached the kitchen, he aimed his Glock. At first, it appeared empty. Then a figure stepped out of the pantry. A familiar figure.
“Indie?”
The woman screamed, a bag of balloons flying into the air as she grabbed her chest. “Oh my God, Holden! What the hell are you doing?”
“What amIdoing?”
“Yes! You scared the life out of me! I think I’m dead. Am I dead?”
He lowered the pistol. “What are you doing here?”
