A few of the chunks of sweet corn that are sticking out of the cookies caught fire. There are no flames now, just smoke trailing from the burnt little chunks.
I look at the Post-it note I already filled out for Hans—the words mocking me. Charred sweet corn cookies indeed. The charring was supposed to only be from when I flash seared the fresh sweet corn. A little note of umami flavor to the sugar sweetness. Not charred to within an inch of its life.
My eyes start to sting, and I realize how hazy it is in the kitchen.
I groan. The last thing I need is my smoke detector going off.
I reach over the sink and open the window behind it to let in some fresh air.
Even though night has fallen, it’s still warm outside. But the little breeze is immediate, and the haze starts to lessen.
I still stand here, waving the oven mitts around, trying to bring in more fresh air.
It’s dark out, and with the lights on inside, I can’t see through the window into the backyard, but I’m thankful my house backs up to the woods. The number of times I’ve had to wave smoke out of my house is a little embarrassing, and I’m glad no one can see me.
The clock on the back of the stove shows that two minutes have passed since I pulled the cookies out of the oven, but the recipe says to let them sit for five before transferring to the cooling racks.
At this point, it doesn’t really matter what I do with them, but I’m still going to stick with the recipe.
I let my eyes close as I breathe through my frustration.
Along with needing to hone my baking skills, I need to figure out what to do next month.
My company is giving everyone who was on that bus the next two weeks off, fully paid, but it doesn’t take a lawyer to recognize the huge pile of shit that will no doubt hit the fan.
Our names were supposed to be kept confidential, but with social media and those job networking sites, it hasn’t taken the news outlets long to narrow down the people involved.
I have no desire to talk to the media about what happened, but I can think of at least four people right off the top of my head who will jump at the chance.
Even if the company can survive the scandal, I don’t know that I want to deal with it.
My cheeks puff out with my exhale, and I accept that I should start looking for a new job on Monday.
I’ve got a little money saved, but not enough to survive being jobless for more than a month or two. And I’m all too familiar with how long the hiring process can take.
A crack sounds from outside, and my eyes snap open.
I stand totally still, listening, but I don’t hear anything else.
Unnerved, I slowly step away from the open window.
It’s nothing.
It certainly isn’t the Mexican cartel coming to get you.
Just stay calm.
I take another step across the kitchen, toward the door that leads outside.
I don’t go out onto my little back patio much, since I’m more of an indoor girl, but I do have a small slab of concrete behind the kitchen, big enough for a grill I never use.
My gaze flicks back to the window.
“It’s nothing.” I stamp my foot as I say it.
A branch fell out of a tree because it was dead, or a bunny, maybe a coyote, stepped on a stick. The noise was literally nothing.
But if I don’t check, I know I won’t be able to sleep.
Huffing out a breath, I move to the storage bench sitting next to the door and yank it open.
I may not go outside much, but I keep all my things right here. A pile of knitted winter hats—my last failed hobby. A rain jacket that’s too tight on my arms. Two and a half pairs of flip-flops. Oversized grill tongs. And… I pick up the beginner crossbow sitting on top of it all. Then I wince over the fact that I left it sitting in there loaded, arrow already notched into place.
It’s not heavy duty, only meant for target practice, not for hunting. But it does have a high-powered flashlight attached to it. And holding it will make me feel better about opening the back door.
It’s shaped like a short shotgun, with a pistol-type grip and trigger in the middle of the length. So I put the butt to my shoulder and hold it in place with my right hand, my pointer finger resting next to the trigger, then I use my left hand to swing the door open.
Darkness.
I forgot to turn on the flashlight feature before I opened the door.
There’s a small pool of light on the grass from the open kitchen window, but there seems to be no moon at all tonight.
My left hand fumbles for the little button on the side of the bow, then I find it.
And I flip it on.
Brightness flares in my vision, and I blink it away to see a man sprinting across the lawn toward me.
A stranger.
I stumble backward.
And I pull the trigger.
I don’t even mean to.
I didn’t even aim.
I just reacted.
But before I can shove the scream out of my lungs, I watch the arrow land. Right in the center of his throat. Sinking through the soft skin.
He falls on his next step and smashes down onto his knees.
Shock and fear fight for space inside me as I slam the door shut and lock it.
That did not just happen.
I drop the empty crossbow and rush to the window, sliding that shut too.
I try to look through the window, then remember it’s too dark.
I hustle back to the door and flip on the switch for the exterior light I completely forgot about two minutes ago, then go back to the window over the sink.
Maybe nothing really happened.
Light floods the yard, illuminating the man.
“Um.” I press my hands together.
In the middle of my yard, maybe twenty feet from my back door, is the stranger, clawing at the arrow protruding from his neck.
“Umm!” I say it a little louder.
Then he pitches forward.
“Umm!” My voice jumps an octave.
I flip off the light.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…
I spin away from the view and run across my house to the front door.
I’m in a pair of short sleep shorts and a thin tank top, and I have to press a hand over my boobs to keep them from bouncing all over the place, but I don’t stop running for anything.
Not my shoes. Not my keys. Not anything. I just rip open my front door and run straight across my front lawn toward Hans’s house.
CHAPTER 61
Hans
The shower curtain flicks water at me as I shove it open to grab my towel off the rack on the wall.
I kept my distance after jumping out the back door of that bus, but there was no way I was going to leave her there without my protection. So I stayed an extra day too.
My flight home left twenty minutes after Cassandra’s, but with my lack of checked luggage and the speed of my driving, I made it home—truck parked, garage door closed—eight minutes before Cassandra’s parents pulled up to my neighbor’s house with their daughter in tow.
I braced myself for my girl to storm straight over, demanding an explanation. But that didn’t happen.
Maybe because her parents spent all day at her house.
Maybe I just imagined her gasping my name on the bus.
Maybe she didn’t put it together.