I pause with my hand on the doorknob and set my ear to the crack. Nothing.
There are so many people after me that I have no idea who I might find on the other side. It was a mistake staying here. I should have returned to the shelter. But the Strangler knows where the shelter is now anyway. Still, the odds against one are considerably better than they are against three or more.
I turn the knob so carefully; it scarcely makes a sound. Pulling the door back, I poke my head into the hallway. The light from the living room filters in, enough to see the corners are empty of moving shadows.
I step out and inch toward the living room. Bart is lying at the foot of Myrtle’s chair, his head on his paws. He looks at me as I enter, tracking my movements with his eyes. Then, they slide eerily toward the kitchen.
I follow his gaze, gliding around the furniture with the quiet of a ghost. When I finally have a view of the kitchen, I find it empty. I turn to the dog, “Hey, buddy. Everything okay in here?”
He lifts his head, curious, and I sigh. I check all the doors and windows meticulously before turning out every light in the house, pulling on some clean underwear and a tank top, and climbing into bed. My imagination must be getting the better of me, with good reason. But I need to keep my head. The next few days, next few hours, are too important to lose my focus. Even the smallest miscalculation could have deadly consequences. I’ve already witnessed that.
An hour later, I decide I’ve done such a good job battening down the hatches that I’ve shut sleep out as well. I flop from oneside to the other on the springy mattress and soft cotton sheets. I should be enjoying this, but I can’t settle. Bart is curled on the floor, attempting to ignore me.
And then I hear a rustle from the next room—herroom.
I bolt upright in bed and slip from the blankets. This time, I move so slowly, so soundlessly, that my own breathing roars by comparison. The door to her room is open a crack, and soft light spills out. I am certain it was closed when I went to bed. As certain as I am of what I heard in the shower. My throat tightens as the fear creeps higher.
When I reach her door, I nudge it open, every muscle bunching inside me, ready to spring into action. It squeals on its hinges as it swings. The room is empty, the window closed. But the lamp on her bedside table is on.
I did not leave that lamp on.
“Myrtle?” I feel instantly foolish but can’t help myself. When she doesn’t answer, I open her closet door. Inside her flannels and overalls hang side by side, a rustic curtain. But there is no one there, and the space is too small for them to hide from me.
My shoulders sag as tears begin to gather beneath my eyes.
Regardless of how I felt earlier, all I can think now is that she probably hates me for what happened. She’s probably haunting me because I was too stupid to listen. Spinning around, I stalk back to my room and gather my things, tying her robe tight at my waist and pulling on my boots without lacing them. “Come on, buddy,” I tell the dog. “We’re not gonna get any sleep here.”
At the door, I don’t even bother locking up. The cabin has rejected me. It was foolish to expect otherwise. I won’t come back here.
The thought of the shelter cot gives me instant leg cramps, and the long walk in the dark concerns me. Can I even find it like this? What if I get stuck out for the night? A chilly breeze gusts up the hem of the robe in response. I stand on the path under the trees, looking left to right. The futon Myrtle kept in the café loft suddenly rushes to mind. I can make the walk to the shelter tomorrow. Fornow, the café is closer and a lot more appealing. The dog and I head for it.
At the entrance, I look around, but all is quiet. The two guests we had have presumably left, the parking lot empty save for Emil’s car, a sleek Dodge Charger. They probably felt like they won the lottery when there was no one here to square up with. I let Bart and me into the café and head toward the staircase. The familiar sight of the tables and stacks of chairs, the bar and kitchen at the back where Myrtle always positioned herself, bring fresh tears. This time, I let them fall, let myself feel the hurt and betrayal, the deep, penetrating grief of losing a life I was just starting to love. I climb the spiral stairs with a heavy heart, and pull the futon out, a small, tinny note of gratitude for her constant preparedness ringing through me.
When I lie down, I drift off almost instantly, the firm futon cushion grounding my sorrow as Bart finds his place on the floor at my side. I don’t doze. I don’t dream. I simply fall into a puddle of black, thankful for an hour of reprieve and a warm, safe room, the chance to let go and forget.
It must be the witching hour when I hear it again, the same soft bang, like a cabinet door closing downstairs. I jolt awake, eyes dilating in the dark, and hover at the doorway, looking down the stairs. But I can’t see anything amiss.
Behind me, Bart is on his feet, ears perked, as if he knows something I don’t. But he is quiet, and that gives me some comfort.
“Stay here,” I tell him, closing him into the loft room.
One step at a time, I spiral down to the café floor. The room is dark, except for the moonlight that trickles in the front windows. The tables and chairs loom like giant mushrooms, shadowy heaps sprouting from the floor, the forest creeping in.
I tighten the tie of the robe and walk toward the door. For a moment, I just stand there, staring out at the moon, a half-eaten disk in the sky. It reflects the state of my heart, a cookie with so many bites taken out it’s almost unrecognizable. Somewhere in the far distance, Regis is stretched out under a blanket, waiting forthe chance to come home. At least he is safe, I think with some pride. At least I have done that much.
I place my hand on the door handle before turning back, a quick tug to check that it’s locked. But instead of resistance, the door swings toward me, letting in a draft of frigid night air.
It takes a split second for the truth to register—the key from the laundry. He has found it, let himself in. And then I catch his reflection in the glass—the slightest movement, a flash of refracted light on rubber, right behind me.
There is very little time to react. The cord is around my neck before I can even turn my head. My only stroke of luck is that I’ve put a hand up in front of my throat. The nylon bites into my fingers, pressing my knuckles into my larynx. From this angle, I cannot defend myself. All the poison stored inside me will stay there unless I can turn around.
There is a quick yank on the paracord and I realize he is knotting it behind me, and the heavy scent of iron as he slides the rebar in. With one turn, I feel my finger crushing against me. I can still breathe, but only just.
My free hand lashes the air, looking for something to seize. And then I remember the plastic and petroleum jelly I scented earlier that morning and know I will have one small window to save myself, if I stay conscious.
I hear the zipper of his suit slide down and my heart rate kicks up.Typical man,I want to think with a laugh, if only I could find the air.Can’t resist pulling his dick out.I know this game already; I’ve played it before.
In another second, I hear the plastic rustle, and that’s when I swing my arm behind me, before he can get the baggie open, and grasp his naked member with my free hand, squeezing the tender flesh mercilessly, digging my nails into the skin until I feel the blood wetting my quicks.
