Page 17 of Protected from Torment

“No.” Irritation roughens his tone. “I’m here to get the package. Not leave it.”

My heart trips again. He doesn’t sound like Daniel, the UPS driver who usually does this route. Or a bored delivery guy who just wants to get on with his night. This man sounds… angry. Possibly dangerous.

“I don’t have a package for you,” I reply. “You must have the wrong house.”

Though the door is securely locked—I check the doorknob quickly just to be sure—I can’t help feeling a little freaked. Rationally, I know it’s just because of work⁠—

“It’s the right house,” he growls. Then something heavy rattles the door. “And I want what I paid for.”

What he paid for?

Trying to keep my voice steady, I say, “I don’t have anything of yours. You must have the wrong house. Now, please leave. Or I’ll call the police.”

There’s another long, silent pause. Then he hits the door again, this time hard enough to make the small glass panes at the top rattle. “Fucking bitch.”

I’m about to race for my phone—which is inconveniently still lying on the coffee table—when he makes an abrupt turn and heads down the porch steps. As he leaves, I hear another pissed-off, “Fucking bitch!”

Heart thundering in my chest, I lean against the door, watching through the peephole until he gets into a dark sedan idling at the side of the road and drives away. Tears prick behind my eyes. It’s hard to take a full breath.

Frantic questions spin in my head.

Who was that? Why was he here? And what of this package he was talking about? Could it have something to do with the one I got at work?

I’m not sure how much time passes before I stumble away from the door on wobbly legs. But halfway back to the couch, I rethink it, and I scurry into the dining room to grab a chair, instead.

With Tyler’s advice still with me, I wedge the chair beneath the doorknob while vowing to buy a deadbolt and a doorbell camera as soon as I get my next paycheck. Only once I’ve triple-checked the lock and adjusted the chair several times do I finally go back to the couch, with an anxious Oscar close on my heels.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. Snagging my phone, I scrunch myself into a corner of the couch. Oscar smooshes close to me, his unease a visible thing. “It’s okay,” I repeat, though I feel the furthest thing from it. “It’s okay. He’s gone. It’s okay.”

By the time I’m halfway through the episode, my nerves are mostly settled, and I’ve convinced myself the guy was just drunk and reading the house numbers wrong. Maybe he meant to visit my neighbor, Ashton, who just graduated from college and still likes to party like he never left. My unexpected visitor could have been drunk and thought he was at Ashton’s front door, instead.

“Yes,” I say to myself. “I’m sure that was it. You remember how drunk college guys can get. And how stupid they can act.”

I do remember, in fact. That’s why meeting Vince was such a relief. He was ROTC at Clarkson, and I was an English major at SUNY Potsdam. We met through friends, and I was immediately taken by how serious he was about his career. Unlike so many of the guys I met who only cared about partying, Vince had goals, and he wasn’t going to let anything get in their way.

I bet Tyler was like that.

It’s not the first time Tyler’s spontaneously popped into my head in the month since I met him. I’ll think of him at random times, like when I was at the animal shelter and I saw a dog that seemed like he’d be perfect for Tyler. Or when my hard drive got all messed up, and I thought about how Tyler said he could fix anything with computers.

My hand twitches towards my phone as I contemplate texting him. Just to say hi, of course. Not to tell him about the incidents and my unwelcome visitor. Maybe I could send him a picture of Oscar, and⁠—

From the kitchen comes a loud crash, followed by the shattering of glass.

My heart stops.

Oscar springs up, about to leap off the couch, but I grab hold of him. If something fell, and there’s glass on the floor, I don’t want him to cut his paws. “Stay,” I order in my most authoritative tone. I don’t usually use that tone with Oscar except when I mean business, so he obediently sits back down.

Keeping my phone clutched in my hand, I venture towards the kitchen. I’m shaking all over, my pulse is leaping, and that small, scared voice inside me pleads, Just turn around. Leave. Get in the car and leave.

But it’s probably nothing. Just one of the floating shelves falling off the wall, taking the plates it’s holding along with it. Or the light fixture coming loose. Surely, it’s not anything dangerous.

When I reach the kitchen, my breath catches.

It’s not the shelf. Not the light fixture.

It was the window beside the back door.

The back door that’s now partly ajar.