A Flicker in the Dark



We stare at each other for what seems like forever, each one silently daring the other to speak first. Even if I had something to say, I wouldn’t be able to say it. My lips are frozen in place, the sheer terror of Bert Rhodes in the flesh rendering me immobile. I can’t move, I can’t speak. All I can do is stare. My gaze travels down from his eyes to his hands, callused and dirty. They’re large. I imagine them gripping my neck easily, squeezing gently at first before increasing the pressure with every gag. My nails clawing at his grasp, my eyes bulging as they stare into his, searching for a hint of life in the darkness. His cracked lips snaking into a smile. The finger-shaped bruises Detective Thomas would find on my skin.

He clears this throat.

“Is this the residence of Daniel Briggs?”

I stare at him for another second, blinking a few times, as if my mind is trying to shake itself from a stupor. I don’t know if I heard him correctly—he’s looking for Daniel? When I don’t answer, he speaks again.

“We got a call from Daniel Briggs ’bout thirty minutes ago asking to install a security system at this address.” He looks down at his clipboard before glancing at the street sign behind him, as if checking to make sure he’s at the right place. “Said it was urgent.”

I glance behind him at the car parked in my driveway, the Alarm Security Systems logo printed across the side. Daniel must have called the company himself as soon as he got in the car—it was a sweet gesture, well intentioned, but one that also lured Bert Rhodes directly to me. Daniel has no idea of the danger he’s just put me in. I look back at this man from my past, lingering on my doorstep, waiting politely to be invited inside. The realization dawns on me slowly.

He doesn’t recognize me. He doesn’t know who I am.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but I’m breathing rapidly, my chest rising and falling violently with each desperate inhale. Bert seems to notice at the same moment I do; he’s eying me suspiciously, rightfully curious as to why his presence is making a stranger hyperventilate. I know I need to calm myself down.

Chloe, breathe. Can you breathe for me? Breathe in through your nose.

I imagine my mother and close my lips, inhaling deep through my nostrils and letting my chest fill with air.

Now out through your mouth.

I purse my lips and push out the stale air slowly, feeling my heartbeat slow. I clench my hands to stop them from shaking.

“Yes,” I say, stepping to the side and gesturing for him to come in. I watch as his foot crosses the threshold of my home, my sanctuary. My safe haven and my escape, carefully crafted to exude normalcy and control, an illusion that instantly shatters the moment this presence from my past steps inside. There’s an atmospheric shift in the air, a buzzing of particles that makes my arm hair bristle. Standing closer to me now, inches from my face, he seems even larger than I remembered, despite the fact that the last time I was in a room with this man, I was twelve years old. But he doesn’t seem to know that. He doesn’t seem to have any idea that I am the twelve-year-old girl who shares blood with the man who murdered his daughter; I am the girl who screamed when the rock he threw came crashing through my mother’s window. I am the girl who hid beneath my bed when he showed up on our doorstep stinking of whiskey and sweat and tears.

He doesn’t seem to have any idea of the history we share. And now, with him standing in my home, I wonder if I can use this to my advantage.

He steps farther into the house and looks around, his eyes scanning the hallway, the attached living room, the kitchen, and the staircase that leads to the second floor. He takes a few steps and peeks into each room, nodding to himself.

Suddenly, a terrifying thought washes over me. What if he does recognize me? What if he’s just checking to see if I’m alone?

“My husband is upstairs,” I say, my eyes darting to the staircase. Daniel keeps a gun stashed in our bedroom closet, in case of intruders. I rack my brain, trying to remember where the box is, exactly. I wonder if I can make an excuse to run upstairs and grab it, just in case. “He’s on a conference call, but if you need anything, I can just go ask him.”

He squints at me before licking his lips and smiling, shaking his head gently, and I get the distinct feeling that he’s laughing at me, mocking me. That he knows I’m lying about Daniel, and that I am here completely alone. He walks back in my direction, and I notice him rubbing his hands against his pants, as if wiping the sweat from his palms. I start to panic and consider bolting outside before he twists around and points to the door, tapping it twice with his index finger.

“No need, I’m just assessin’ your entry points. Two main doors, front and back. You got lots of windows in here, so I would suggest we install some glass-break sensors. You want me to take a look upstairs?”

“No,” I say. “No, downstairs is fine. That all—that all sounds fine. Thank you.”

“You want cameras?”

“What?”

“Cameras,” he repeats. “They’re tiny little things we can place throughout the property, then you can access the video from your phone—”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, quickly, absentmindedly. “Yeah, sure. That’ll be good.”

“All right,” he says, nodding. He scribbles some notes on his clipboard before thrusting it in my direction. “If you could just sign here, I’ll get my tools.”

I take the clipboard and look down at the order form as he steps outside and walks toward his car. I can’t sign my name, obviously. My real name. Surely, he would recognize that. So instead, I sign Elizabeth Briggs—my middle name paired with Daniel’s last—and hand him the clipboard as he walks back inside. I watch as he scans my signature before making my way back to the couch.

“I appreciate you showing up on such short notice,” I say, shutting my laptop and stuffing my phone into my back pocket. “That was extremely quick.”

“On-demand, 24/7,” he says, reciting the slogan from the website. He’s walking around the house now, sticking sensors on each window. The thought of this man knowing exactly which areas to avoid to bypass the alarm is suddenly concerning; for all I know, he could be skipping a spot, keeping a mental note of which window to crawl through when he comes back later. I wonder if this is how he chooses his victims—maybe he first saw Aubrey and Lacey when installing systems in their homes. Maybe he stood inside their bedrooms, took a peek inside their panty drawers. Learned their routines.

I’m quiet as he stalks through my house, poking his head into various corners, his fingers into every crack. He grabs a footstool and grunts as he climbs, sticking a small, circular camera in the corner of the living room. I stare into it, a microscopic eye staring right back.

“Are you the owner?” I ask at last.

“No,” he says. I expect him to elaborate further, but he doesn’t. I decide to keep pressing.

“How long have you been doing this?”

He climbs off the ladder and looks at me, his mouth opening as if he wants to say something. Instead, he reconsiders and closes it again before walking toward the front door, pulling out a drill from his tool bag and fastening the security panel to the wall. I watch the back of his head as the sound of the drill fills my hallway, and try again.

“Are you local to Baton Rouge?”

The drilling stops, and I see his shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around, but now the sound of his voice is what fills the empty room.

“Do you really think I don’t know who you are, Chloe?”

I freeze, his response stunning me into silence. I keep watching the back of his head until, slowly, he turns around.

“I recognized you the second you answered the door.”

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