“Why are you whispering?” Wing queries.
“I’m not,” I insist, even though I am.
“Are you sure there’s no one else there?”
An idea strikes me. “My boyfriend should be here anytime,” I say much louder.
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, I just talked to him, he should be here any minute,” I bluster.
“Oh fuck,” Winger curses dejectedly, and I hear a door slam.
“Yeah, he has a few friends with him too.”
“You better be joking.” Winger sounds serious.
I step into the stall with Scooby and close the door after us, peeking out the window. “I think there’s someone outside,” I whisper to Winger.
“Outside where?”
“Outside my barn. Shush.” I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“You said your boyfriend was coming because you heard someone outside?” he asks briskly.
“Shush,” I hiss, listening intently. “There was a car by my mailbox. I know I sound like I’m being paranoid, but I heard a noise outside.”
Winger releases a weighted sigh. “It’s fine, Fel,” he mumbles, sounding more concerned that I had a boyfriend than the possibility of someone sneaking around my house.
“I think someone’s been following me from the club,” I tell him to add credence to my claim.
The line is really quiet again, but I can hear soft noises in the background, so I know he hasn’t muted me. He probably just doesn’t know what to say. It’s not his job to protect me. I feel awkward all of a sudden. Winger is my boss, not my bodyguard, no matter how he acts at the club. I need to get off the phone. I’m at my home, not some strip club. If someone is on my property, I need to call the police.
“Forget it. I’m probably overreacting.” My tone is flat. “Let me know if you need me tomorrow. Bye.” I hang up quickly before he can respond.
I cradle the phone in my hand and peek out into the barn again. I haven’t heard anything more, but the hair on my arms is still standing on end. After two more minutes of stalling, I inch Scooby’s door open and wedge myself out. Moving slowly so I don’t make much noise, I approach the large bay door. Off to the left, I see the porch light I left on and my truck parked near the kitchen entrance of the house. There’s no evidence anyone is around, but every instinct I have is telling me something is lurking in the shadows.
I look down the driveway, but between the trees and the darkness, I can’t make out anything beyond the glow of the porch light. With my house key in my hand, I take a few deep breaths and run to the kitchen door like my ass is on fire. My hands are shaking, and I feel like I’m about to piss my pants when I jab the key into the knob. I duck into the door quickly and slam it shut behind me, flipping the deadbolt in the same second.
There’s a checkered curtain over the glass in the door, and once I catch my breath, I inch it to the side so I can peer out. The glow from the barn is bright. I didn’t even think about turning the lights off or closing the door behind me.
I scan the tree line and the shadows, but I don’t see anything. Feeling foolish for how scared I got, I almost text Winger and apologize for freaking out on him, but I decide not to.
I ensure the doors are locked and check every window on the main floor before lightly knocking on my mom’s door. I don’t get a reply, so I crack the door open. Finding her asleep, I tiptoe in and check her windows also.
It’s hard to turn the hall light off when I head upstairs for the night, but I force myself to, knowing it would only help someone see inside if they were out there. I bypass the bathroom, deciding to brush my teeth later, and go straight to my room. Every night when I get home from work, I always take a shower, so it feels like a luxury that I don’t need to take a second one tonight. Plus, I’m too creeped out to let myself be that vulnerable right now.
I turn on my lamp with the switch right near the door while I’m still standing in the hall. My room is just how I left it—a mess. My bed isn’t made, but it never is, and I have clothes draped over half my furniture. Keeping up with the rest of the house is enough. This is my sanctuary. I don’t care that I haven’t swept under my bed in six months. It’s not like anyone other than Gwen and I know, and she’s a bigger slob than I am.
Once I realize there isn’t anyone waiting to slit my throat—I may watch too many serial killer documentaries—I head over to the windows and pull my shades closed. I can’t help but take another peek around. “Shit,” I hiss when I notice the barn door is closed.
With shaking hands, I pull out my phone. My finger hovers over the nine for way too long. I start to question if I really did leave it open, or if the wind may have blown it closed. I’m reluctant to call the police. It’s not like I’m going to admit I’ve been stripping in Detroit and I think I picked up a stalker, and if I just tell them someone closed my barn door without any other information, they’ll think I’m nuts.
I flip the lamp off and sit on the edge of my bed, staring into the night. I could just tell them about the car at the end of the road and have them check to make sure everything is okay. I do a search for the nonemergency number and dial it. After several automated prompts, a man answers.
“Washtenaw County Sheriff’s Office.”
I clear my throat. “Ah, yeah, hi. I live off of Godferson Road. There’s a car parked next to my mailbox. I’m not sure if they’re broken down or what, but it’s a dangerous place to be parked.”
