It must’ve been hard for Joe to do that, but I don’t quite have it in me to thank him. “It couldn’t have been easy for him, coming here,” he adds quickly. “Maybe one day…”
He doesn’t finish, but I know him too well. Maybe, Joe thinks, we canhave the Whitmans over for a barbecue, and we can drink beer like old friends, and we can all ignore the fact that their friend was beaten to death upstairs.
I glance over my shoulder at my husband. His cheeks are red with cold, and he shuffles from foot to foot. Skirmishes with people always leave him jittery.
“I don’t want him here again,” I say flatly. “He’s not welcome.”
And before he can argue, I hold my palm up to stop him. “It’s not your problem, Joe. I’ll handle the Whitmans.” I turn back to the window, staring moodily at a rain-heavy cloud. “I’ll handle anyone that tries to mess with my plans.”
“You always do.”
It’s the way he says it that makes me flinch. I’m shocked how much resentment he can cram into three words.
Well, now it’s my turn.
“You’re just as bad as me,” I say quietly. “In fact…you might be worse.”
I swear I can feel him bristling behind me. “The fuck doesthatmean?”
“You know,” I say simply.
Silently, Reaper crosses the room, oblivious to the tension between Joe and me. Or maybe heisaware, but he’s learned to ignore it. He leaps onto my lap and perches on my left knee. For a moment, none of us move, and it must be a strange picture. Me, trembling and silent. My cat on my knee like a disapproving statue. And my darling husband, hovering behind us like he can’t make up his mind if he wants to kill us or not.
Joe finally moves. He stalks across the floorboards, and they groan loudly like they’re mad at him. The front door bursts open again, and the wind shrieks in. A splatter of rain begins to fall, and Joe ducks his head as he half runs out to his car.
Reaper and I watch him flee. We watch his white car speed down the snaking driveway and listen to his tires screech around the corner. Gone.
Reaper gives me a look that says,God, he’s a dickhead.He jumps off myknee, and I slowly get to my feet. I close the front door, then find myself wandering into the kitchen, standing in front of the pantry door. The longer I stare, the angrier I get. The wood is rotting, the paint all blistered like sunburned skin.
Stuff this.
I lunge for the hammer on the kitchen counter and smash it against the pantry door. I strike it over and over until I’m sweating and breathless and near tears. Joe. I don’t even know where the hell he goes when he flees from me. Part of me envies him. I’ve never had a safe place to run to.
Smash. Smash. Smash.I bring the hammer down with all my strength, hitting the wall so hard I feel it in my elbow. Sweat and tears run down my face, and from somewhere far away I hear a faint voice.
Stop it. Stop!
I hesitate mid-strike, the hammer an inch from the door. I wait in the silence, my ears ringing, sweat staining my armpits. The voice doesn’t speak again.
Because I imagined it. Obviously.
I slump forward and rest my forehead against the pantry door, clutching the sweaty hammer in my right hand. I hold my breath and wait. And I swear the house does too.
Idiot, I scold myself, the house isn’t talking to you. It doesn’t care what you do to it. But when I drop the hammer, I swear I feel the house begin to breathe again.
—
It’s nearly 10p.m., and Joe still isn’t home. Every time I go to call him, I distract myself instead, but I keep my phone in my pajama pocket, just in case he rings me. Just in case he says, “I’m sorry. I’m coming home now.”
I pull my work clothes out of the washing machine and dump them into a basket to hang on the back-porch clothes rack. When I lug the basket to the back door, I stare into the darkness. We have no outside light, and sometimes the roos like to come up from Black Wood Forestto stand around in the backyard. In the morning or arvo, it’s actually kind of nice seeing those big, dopey bastards just hanging out. But at night, it’s terrifying. You can’t see them, but usually you’ll hear them. Breathing. Grunting. Grinding their teeth. Sometimes you won’t even hear them. You’ll think you’re alone out there, until something comes rushing toward you.Thump, thump, thump.When we were kids, my sister and I used to dare each other to run around the outside of our house at night while the roos watched from the darkness. She’d stroll out, taking her time, and appear back inside the house, unruffled. I’d run the whole way, shrieking.
I wait at the back door, gripping the basket. I’m reaching for the doorknob when I hear an ear-piercingcreak.
The sound came from my left. The library. The bloody door is wide open again. I freeze, heart in my mouth. And then I hear it again.Creak. Creak. Creak.It sounds like someone is walking around in the darkness.
I drop the basket and dig into my pajama pocket for my phone. I hate the fact that I check first for any message from Joe. Idiot. I turn the torch on and shine it toward the doorway.
“Hello?” I call out, wondering what the hell I’ll do if someone calls back.
