I stumble back, hands freezing cold and shaking now. I look desperately around for clothes, but all I find is my bathrobe. I fling it on, fasten it tight around my waist. My mind is frantic; it’s hard to think straight. I lunge for my bedside lamp and flick it off. Joe. Ring Joe. I reach for my phone, but I’m shaking so hard, I type the wrong passcode in. Shit. Shit.
The phone finally unlocks. I ring Joe, press the phone to my ear, and peer outside, fear flooding my veins. The phone rings once. “Hello, the number you have called has been disconnected,” an automated voice tells me.
What the hell? I stare at the phone, swearing under my breath, but it’s definitely Joe’s number. He’s the only number listed in the Favorites section. Plus, I called him only a few hours ago and left him that message…
I check the number again and press redial. “Hello, the number you have called—”
I hit the end-call button. Wow. I bet he’s already changed numbers after the charming message I left him. I’m momentarily distracted, raging at my husband, when I hear it. I lift my head and freeze. Downstairs, a door creaks open, and the raging wind shrieks in. The front door. It’s the front door.
My hand slackens, and the phone drops to the floor. I’m too scared to breathe.
My pulse thunders in my wrist. Do something. But I can’t move. The only ways out of the house are the front and back doors, and both are downstairs. Hide under the bed, then? Or in the cupboard? Shit, shit, shit. I search frantically for an escape. The bedroom window! The damn fixed window. It can’t be opened. But if I smashed it, surely I could crawl out onto the roof? But they’d hear that, and they’d surely come running.
The wind is still roaring in, and the walls rattle and moan. Why haven’t they closed the door? Why don’t they care about the noise they’re making? And the answer hits me like a blow to the head: Maybe it’s because I won’t be around to tell anyone.
I stand perfectly still. The lights are all off, except for the blue glow from the phone charger. Slowly, I creep to the door. I open it as quietly as I can and peer into the blackness. How many fucking times did I tell myself to install a hallway light? I can’t see shit out here. But I hear it.
Click.
Silence. The wind stops abruptly. They’ve closed the door. Downstairs, the floorboards creak, creak, creak, like someone’s tiptoeing. I shake at the thought of someone creeping around my house in the darkness. My blood drums in my ears. I wait there, hand on the doorknob, desperate for them to leave. Should I call out? Tell them the police are coming? That my husband’s home? But we don’t have a garage. And the only car parked outside is mine.
They know I’m here. They know I’m alone.
And they’re coming straight for me.
Creak, creak, creak.I stumble back. They’re coming up the stairs. I rush to the bedside table, rip the lamp cord from the socket, and wrap my hand around the base of the lamp. It’s not even heavy, but it’s the best chance I’ve got. I run to the door, not even caring about the noise I’m making.
“Hey!” I call out, hysteria gripping my voice.
A stair groans in response. I want to run screaming from the house. But if they’re on the stairs, then I’m blocked in. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
I grip the lamp tighter. “Get out! Get the fuck outta my house!”
God, I wish Joe was here. Or Reaper. I flatten myself against the door, panting with terror. Silence. They move like a sleepwalker, and somehow that’s more terrifying. For a disorienting moment, I think it’s Bill Campbell’s ghost.
They’re walkingright downthe hallway. A few more steps, and they’llbe at my bedroom door. I grasp the handle, locking it in place, heart thumping, thumping, thumping.
“Jeff?” I call out desperately.
A floorboard groans, and the creaking stops. It’s him. It’s him. I know it is.
I can’t breathe. I press my ear to the door, gripping the doorknob so hard it hurts. I’m about to twist it open when the footsteps retreat, thundering back down the hallway. I wrench the door open and step out into the dark. The intruder flees down the stairs, making no attempt to be quiet. I make it to the top of the stairs and squint down at the lounge room.
There! I see a faint outline in the dark as he throws the front door open. I hover there at the top of the stairs, heart in my mouth, as he flings himself out the door and slams it shut.
—
Fuck this. Jeff Johnson might have Beacon in his big, dinner-plate hands. He might have the town cop in his back pocket, but he doesn’t own everything. And everyone. The next closest town is Wilora, fifteen minutes away. I quickly google the police station number, dial it, and hold the phone to my ear. As it rings, I mouth over and over, “Fuck Jeff Johnson. Fuck him.”
The young man’s voice is brisk, efficient, “Wilora Police Station?”
I clear my throat. I have a sudden desire to burst out laughing. The pressure’s getting to me, and I feel a bit unhinged. Even more so than usual, I mean.
“Hi,” I begin awkwardly. “A man just broke into my house.” I’m speaking too fast. I’m nervous as hell and shaking with adrenaline. “I know who it was. My neighbor Jeff Johnson. He lives at One—”
“Mrs. Slade?”
I hesitate, heart hammering, stomach twisting. I never told him my name. It catches me so off guard that my mouth drops open for one long second.
