I manage to stuff the clothes I’ve brought into two small roller bags and my office supplies into three boxes I locate in the garage. I told myself when I moved here that, based on how low in energy I was, I probably wouldn’t require many clothes. Now I can’t help but wonder if on some deep level I intuited how short my stay in this house would be. I haul everything to the area by the kitchen door so I can quickly load it into my car come morning.
Finally, at eleven, I head upstairs. I envision another night of endless, wide-eyed flopping in bed, but as I slip in between the sheets, I realize that not only has the packing made my bones ache with fatigue but also the idea of decamping from the house tomorrow has calmed me. I find myself quickly drifting off to sleep.
And then I’m awake again, staring into pitch-darkness. Something has stirred me into consciousness. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve had another nightmare, and I lie there quietly, trying to summon it. But nothing comes.
I consider then if a noise has woken me. I struggle up on my elbows and switch on the bedside lamp, creating a small pool of light in the room. It’s probably just the house, I tell myself.
And then I hear it. Not the house creaking. It’s a rhythmic, metallic sound that’s coming from downstairs. My heart hurls itself against my rib cage, and I bolt all the way up this time.
It stops. And comes back a couple of seconds later. A clicking, something moving back and forth. And then nothing again.
Fear practically immobilizes me, but I force myself out of bed and grab my phone off the table. I tiptoe from the bedroom into the hallway, to the top of the stairs.
I freeze in position there. Seconds pass. It’s now utterly silent. Could I have heard a branch scraping against a window? Holding my breath, I descend the stairs. I have to figure out what it was.
I reach the downstairs hall, where the wall sconces are burning brightly, and stand perfectly still again. The sounds, I realize, must have come from here or the living room, or else I wouldn’t have heard them. I peer out one of the windows alongside the door. The porch light is on and there’s nothing there.
Cautiously I step into the living room. It’s all lit up, just as I left it, but it seems odd to find it this way in the middle of the night, as if an emergency has roused the entire household. I swing my head back and forth, checking every corner. Nothing seems amiss. I move to the windows next, looking for branches. But I can’t see anything that could have produced the noise.
As I turn to leave, my heart still thrumming, my eye falls on the door to the screened porch. I step forward and reach for the metal handle. I jiggle it several times, and at the sound my body goes limp. This is what I heard from upstairs. Someone moving the handle up and down, trying to get in.
Chapter 21
Instinctively my gaze shoots out onto the screened porch. I left a small table lamp burning, and it illuminates most of the interior space. Nobody’s there. But the outside door to the porch has been flung open.
I jerk my body around so I’m facing back into the living room, wondering if the prowler has managed to penetrate the house. The room’s empty, untouched. I turn back toward the door. The bolt’s still on—I can see the gunmetal-gray sliver of it between the door frame and the door. No one could have entered this way.
I tear from the room and check the bolt on the front door. It’s in place. As, thankfully, is the one on the kitchen door. I glance toward the double window above the sink. Though the room is as bright as a movie set, it’s pitch-black outside and I can’t see a thing.
Who tried to get in tonight? Was it Guy? Was it the murderer, intent on hurting Guy or me or both of us?
I need to call 9–1–1. As I lift my finger to tap the number, the phone rings, startling me so much that it almost flies from my hand. The caller is unknown. With a trembling finger, I press accept.
“Yes?” I say.
A few moment of silence follow and then, strangely, the sound of rain. I pull the phone from my ear and listen. There’s no rain falling outside the house.
“Who is this?” I demand.
No one speaks. There’s only that sound, rain splattering on the ground. And then I realize the noise is too fast for rain. It’s . . . it’s the sound of fire, the brisk, rhythmic crackling of something burning. And then, far off, a siren wailing.
My knees go weak and I let out a cry, almost a howl. For a few moments I am in hard-packed snow at the bottom of the ravine, watching the flames from the car fire above, feeling, the heat even from below.
I punch desperately at the screen with my finger until the call disconnects. I take several deep breaths, trying to tamp down my panic.
9–1–1. I have to call. But if patrol cops are dispatched here tonight, Corcoran will learn about it soon enough, and she may lump this in the same category as the mystery caller I described days ago. She may assume that I’m fabricating this, too, that I’m up to something again. I can’t have her fixated on me any more than she already is.
My gaze falls on the kitchen table. I picture Derek, sitting there the other evening, stressing that he wanted to help me. I scroll through my contacts, searching for his number, and finally tap it, my fingers still shaking. The clock on my phone says 12:34.