“He wouldn’t be here this early,” I said, trying to convince myself. I had that same creepy feeling of being watched, but there was nothing we could do about it. I hoisted the yoga bag from the backseat before handing Sarah the keys and reminding her to park as close as she could to the entrance of the subdivision. Then I ran from the car to the small strip of shadowed land separating two houses.
Hidden from view, I rested for a moment, turning back to watch Sarah drive off before looking ahead to assess how to get across the no-man’s-land of open ground with the least exposure. The plan had been for me to enter the house from the back because the blackmailer, we assumed, would enter, like Julie, from the front. It made sense in theory, but now, confronted with the reality, it seemed like a foolish idea. I’d be totally exposed. There were no trees, no other vegetation or buildings to shield me from anyone who happened to look in the right direction. Julie didn’t think anyone had actually moved into any of the houses yet, but we couldn’t be sure and accessing the house by cutting through the backyards made it hard to pretend I was a prospective buyer. But it was too late to choose another option.
Shifting the bag on my shoulder, I started across the dirt yard, the bat bumping painfully against my back, my feet stumbling over the hard, uneven ground, my labored breathing loud in my ears. I ran straight to the house, up two steps and across the low wooden deck, yanking open the back door that Julie said she’d leave open, jerking to a stop only once I was inside.
I closed the door, leaning against it and breathing hard, looking out through the small glass panes to see if I could spot anybody, but there was no one. I turned around and examined the kitchen where I stood, hesitating to move because of the sudden thought that the blackmailer might have had the same idea and might already be hiding there, waiting until Julie came with the money. Flinging a hand over my mouth, I tried to stifle my breathing as I waited, listening. No sound other than my own thrumming pulse. I took the bag from my shoulder and clutched it in my hand, walking quickly and quietly through the house.
The house was pretty basic inside, too—pre-finished wood floors throughout with granite tile countertops and stock cabinets in the kitchen and baths. There were gaping holes where the kitchen stove and fridge should be, and some rooms still had naked lightbulbs instead of light fixtures. Julie was supposed to place the duffel bag in front of the empty living room hearth, and when the blackmailer bent to take it, my plan was to come out from hiding, whack him with the bat, and grab his phone.
“Hit him hard,” Sarah had said. “We can’t let him get away this time.”
“Aim high,” Julie added. “Hit him in the head or the chest.”
“And then what?” I’d asked. “Are we going to dig a hole out there and bury him in the subdivision? Or will we make this murder look like a carjacking, too?”
Julie didn’t answer, avoiding my gaze, but Heather said defensively, “It’s him or us.”
The awful truth was that I knew she was right. We had no more money to give this person, but we couldn’t risk ignoring him either. The police were snooping around, suspicious of Heather and Julie; all they needed was proof. And they were suspicious of me, too. They’d already been to my house once. The photographs were more than enough to bring charges against all of us.
“Just bring him down and get the phone,” Sarah said. “We’ll worry about the rest of it later.”
And I’d agreed to this plan because there seemed to be no other way.
Now was not the time to back out, not while standing in the house where the blackmailer would soon arrive to claim the money. I looked around, searching for a hiding space. There was a coat closet in the front hall, just off the room with the fireplace, and I stepped inside it, pulling the hollow door closed.
It was dark, so much darker than I thought it would be, and musty. I could hear hangers softly pinging against one another, but when I reached up to silence them there was only empty space. Memories assailed me. Another closet, another time. I always hid in the closet, crouching in the back, my hands covering my ears. It also had one of those hollow-core doors, because the house was “cheaply built and not worth a shit!” I can hear him complaining, proving his point by kicking through some drywall in the living room. He has knocked the door into the master bedroom completely off its hinges. This time because he’s been locked out. “Don’t you fucking do that again!” He’s proud of the damage that I’m ashamed of, pointing to it with pride. “There’s proof.” “But he’s not talking about his violence, he’s talking about the house being poorly made, a “crappy little Cracker Jack box.”
I pushed open the door, gasping for air and light. I couldn’t hide in there, it was too much. Pressing a hand against my head as if to physically suppress the memories, I hurriedly looked for another spot. The builders hadn’t finished the space behind the stairs. There was no door like the closet, but it was cloaked in shadows. I crept into it, crouching so I wouldn’t smack my head against the rough wood, breathing in the scent of sawdust. I made sure my phone was on silent and unzipped the bag, lifting out the bat. The end of a nail scratched the back of my hand and I sucked at the wound, tasting blood. There was light streaming in through the windows in the living room—I could glimpse dust motes dancing in it—but it was cold in the house. Didn’t they have to keep the heat on to stop pipes from bursting? I could see my own breath. Where was Julie? She’d said she’d text when she arrived, but there was nothing. I checked my phone once and then again. A minute lasted an hour.
Footsteps outside startled me. I sat up, banging my head against the stairs above me, and dropped back down into a crouch, suppressing a cry of pain as I checked my phone. She hadn’t sent a text. I heard the squeak of a door opening and then footsteps inside. I moved forward, about to pop out to see her, when all at once I realized it wasn’t Julie. The noise came from the back of the house and there was a strong, unfamiliar scent—an aftershave or cologne smell overlaid by cigarette smoke. When I heard the footsteps again I realized they were heavy. So the blackmailer was a man. Was it someone we knew? I heard the whine of another door and realized he’d opened the coat closet. Thank God I hadn’t hidden in there. The footsteps continued on into the living room, and the light shifted as he stepped in front of a window. I stayed as still as I could, barely breathing, waiting until I heard him walk out of the room. Then the footsteps were right above me and I shielded my face from the sudden shower of dust as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The blackmailer had come early, too. How had he known the back door would be open? Had he seen us circling the subdivision? Watched me running through the backyards? I gripped the bat more tightly and swallowed hard. Where the hell was Julie? Just as I was about to give up, her text appeared: Just pulled in.
It seemed like an eternity before I heard a new set of footsteps outside and a key turning in the lock. I heard Julie cough after she crossed the living room floor and I knew that she’d placed the money in the hearth. I held my breath, waiting, until her footsteps came back across the polished hardwood and out the front door.
And then I was alone with the blackmailer. I could feel his presence in the house, but there was no noise, not a sound. What was he waiting for? Time passed, painfully slow. My back hurt from being so tensely coiled and my head ached. I strained to hear the slightest movement from upstairs, but there was nothing beyond the sound of my own nervous swallow. Had he heard that? Could he hear me breathing? I thought I’d go mad.