Page 12 of The Cost of Silence

He nods. “Damn scammers be calling me twenty-four-seven. Pain in the butt, that’s what they are.”

“I agree,” I say as he hands over my order. “Thank you.”

He dips his chin. “You have a good evening, Miss.”

Once outside, I go into my settings and block the number immediately, shove the phone into my bag, and tell myself it’s nothing. It’s always nothing, until it isn’t.

By the time I get home, the city’s cooled to a velvet hush. I unlock the door, step inside, and flick the light switch. The glow of the Christmas lights is the only answer.

I lock the deadbolt and slide the chain across, resting my forehead against the door. My shoulders loosen, the first real exhale of the day.

“You don’t run from the dark,” I whisper. “You outshine it.”

I walk to the table, relight the three candles on an antique brass candelabra, and watch the tiny flames settle. They glow gold against the window, catching my reflection. Tired, yes, but proud.

Maybe that’s what courage is, small, ordinary acts in a world that wants you to hide.

The candles flicker. Only they shouldn’t. The windows are closed. The air is still.

My breath stills in my throat. Behind my reflection, something moves. A shape. A shadow.

I turn, fast.

The candelabra wobbles, wax spilling across the glass table as it falls.

The flames die.

And I scream.

The scream rips out of me before I even know I’m making it.

The candlelight jumps, shadows bending sharp across the wall. Something moves fast, solid, a blur of dark fabric and motion.

Then pain. White-hot, blinding. My cheek hits the floor, hard enough that the sound cracks through my skull.

The breath goes out of me in a single, panicked gasp. I taste copper, thick and sharp, spreading across my tongue.

My thoughts stutter, trying to make sense of shape and sound, figure, boots, the smell of cold air and sweat. I curl in on myself instinctively, hands over my head, ribs tightening with fear. I feel hot breath on my face as the man grabs my hair and yanks it hard, so my ear is against his lips. Fear swims inside my veins, hot and poisonous.

“Should’ve left it alone,” a voice growls. Low, accented, male. Rough around the edges. The words buzz through my ears like static. “Retract it,” he says, closer now, his lips skimming my cheek, making bile rush up my throat. “Or next time you don’t walk away.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes. The floor is cool beneath my palms; my pulse is a drumbeat behind my eyes.

A sharp pain blooms in my side, a kick, swift and punishing. The air punches out of my lungs in a grunt.

I roll instinctively, my foot catching the coffee table, my arms clutching my ribs, the world narrowing to fragments, the scent of burnt wax, the taste of fear.

And then, a sound that doesn’t belong. The door slams open. A shout, deep and furious, fills the room.

Footsteps, heavy and fast. A scuffle, the scrape of shoes on tile, a crash, a grunt.

I press my palms to my ears, everything muffled, the world dimming at the edges.

“Hey,” I try to speak, but my throat won’t work.

Something heavy hits the wall. The silence that follows is violent in itself.

And then I hear him, that voice, sharp and controlled even when it’s full of rage.