I pull again, and get nothing but another mocking click.
A floorboard creaks. I refuse to jump this time. I’m not sure I could, with every muscle held so tight. I start to set down my laptop and hesitate, as if abandoning a precious child to its fate. What if the intruder steals my laptop? I’m off-line and haven’t backed up my new story.
With a sharp shake of my head, I set down the computer and back up to the fireplace. I reach behind me and take the poker. The other implements rattle, and every nerve rattles with it. Iclench and raise the poker. Then I head for the kitchen, where I left the shotgun.
I fumble along the kitchen counter until I find my cell phone. I turn on the flashlight and wave it around to see nothing, not even the glow of the flashing 12:00 on the stove. The power is out.
I take a deep breath. I don’t tell myself the power goes out all the time, even if it’s true. I will no longer play that game of false confidence. Someone is here. I went outside to set up my clues, and I didn’t lock the door behind me. Whoever was there came in here.
Another floorboard creaks underfoot.
I back up to where I left…
WheredidI leave the shotgun?
I don’t remember. I’d been distracted by the story idea, and I know I set the gun down somewhere, but I can’t actually recall doing it.
I shine the light again. No sign of a gun on the counter or the table or leaning against a wall.
Just because I don’t see it here doesn’t mean I didn’t leave it here.
The intruder came through the side door, the only one I had opened. That leads straight into the kitchen.
My heart thuds, stealing my breath, and I have to clutch the countertop to calm down and think.
Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe no one is in?—
Down the hall, a shadow flits past the living-room window. A shadow that is undeniablyinsidethe house.
I back up, poker raised.
Get out.
That’s the only answer here. The only sane one, at least. The other option is attack, and I want to do that instead. Oh, how badly I want to do it. Raise the fire poker and charge in there,whooping like a banshee. Show this asshole that I am not a woman to be trifled with. I am old. I am not physically what I used to be. But I can still kick an ass that needs kicking.
It’s a wonderful fantasy, and I’d happily give it to that character I’ve created. She’d attack, and the sheer surprise of that would throw the intruder off guard, and she’d knock him flying, tie him up and calmly drive until she had service to call the police.
That’s fiction. In reality, I’d charge in there, whooping, only to be met by a shotgun blast. The newspaper accounts might mention a poker in my hand, but anyone reading the article wouldn’t imagine an old woman confronting an intruder; they’d picture her huddled in a corner, pathetically clutching her weapon.
That will not be my epitaph.
Instead, I’ll claim only the last part of that fantasy scenario. The one where the heroine drives away and calls the police.
I back along the counter, gaze fixed on the living room, poker ready. My hand goes out to snatch my keys and?—
My keys aren’t there.
I know I put them on the counter. I remember that part. I came in, slapped them down and hauled in my bag.
The keys were here. Now they are not, and with that, my chest seizes and I gasp for air.
A floorboard creaks in the living room. I hold my breath and listen. Another creak. I spin, wildly searching for my keys, knowing I won’t see them, that this intruder stole them along with my shotgun, and the only thing they left me was my damn phone, because they know I don’t have service.
I’m about to stop looking when silver reflects in my cell phone light. My keys, on the floor, where they slid off the counter.
I snatch them up. As I back to the door, I catch a glimpse of something in the shadows. Is that the shotgun? Propped in the corner?
I ease forward. Then a footstep sounds in the living room. A shadowy figure steps into the doorway. It turns toward the shotgun. It sees the shotgun. One arm reaches out, and I wheel, yank open the door and barrel out.
