Page 1 of Sinister Savior

1

ALICE

The TV is loud, and the bourbon goes down smoothly. My head spins a little, but it’s not enough to drown my fears. Tonight, like every night since my husband was gunned down in cold blood, I sit with the pistol in my lap and a drink in my hand. He told me days before his death that they’d come looking for us—for me. I didn’t want to believe him, but now I do.

“Rain showers moving in over the weekend to give us some of that much-needed moisture for our spring flowers. You can pretty much bet on getting soaked if you’re out and about, so take an umbrella.”

The weatherman is always wrong. We haven’t had rain in So-Cal for weeks. I don’t hold my breath that it will start anytime soon, either. We’re just that unlucky. I’m just that unlucky. My marriage was falling to pieces, anyway. I’d already talked to a lawyer about a divorce, which would have cost me every penny I have saved up, but I’d have done it.

I hated that Tom was mixed up with such horrible people, criminals and thugs. He told me six months before his untimely demise, and I wanted out. I wanted us to move away from here, find a safe place torestart out lives, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He insisted that it didn’t matter where we went, that they’d find us. And they did. They found him.

“Next week, we can look forward to brighter skies as the sun returns to the Los Angeles area. Expect highs in the low nineties every day, except Friday, and hit the beach to cool off.”

I stare blankly at the screen, watching the weather man wave his arms around like a fool. The choreographed display is so fake. My soul craves something more, something deeper, the thing I thought I had with Tom before the façade came crashing down and I saw him for who he really was. The thing I’m drinking this whiskey to try to find, which I’ll never find because life doesn’t work like that.

I hear a noise, a bang near the back of my house, and I jump. My nerves are shot. They have been for three months, twenty-two days, fourteen hours, and—I glance at my watch—seventeen seconds. Since the instant that bullet claimed Tom’s life and left me a widow at the age of twenty-three. I’m not supposed to be a widow. I’m supposed to be a mother with a happy family and a nice career and a dog. I’m supposed to be happy.

I pick up the bottle and swig straight from it, ignoring the empty glass in my hand. Every slight sound makes me terrified. Every bump in the night gives me a nightmare. I can’t even go in his office. The cops took him away, but they said it’s my job to clean the mess—the blood and bits of bone from his skull still plastered to the walls. I’m supposed to clean that? I’m supposed to go in there and pretend that I didn’t walk in on half his skull splattered over the floor and ceiling and just mop it up like a pile of vomit?

Tears well up in my eyes and I shake. My hands don’t ever stop trembling. I’ve been to a therapist twice a week since it happened, and she can’t help me. She says PTSD is the worst thing to fight back from and I have to grieve him first. I have to mourn and be sad and cry. But I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad I’m free from that horrible life he wanted forus, but I’m not free, am I? Not truly. Those men, the ones who killed him, they’ll come for me too.

Another loud thump coming from the back of the house makes me jump again, and this time I’m on my feet. The only light in this house is that coming from the television screen. It creates a horrible silhouette of me, I’m sure, as I slowly walk down the hallway. The gun in my hand feels heavy and cold, but I can’t sleep without it. I can’t eat without it. I can’t breathe without it in my hand, reminding me that I’m not safe. I’ll never be safe.

“Who’s there!” I call out timidly. My voice shakes. I’m surprised I even got the word out, that I could even speak at all. My voice cracks too, revealing my fear. If someone is there, they don’t hear me, or if they do, they don’t respond. “I have a gun,” I say, flipping the safety to the off position.

I swallow hard as I tiptoe farther up the hallway. My bedroom is near the back, right off the garage entrance. Mine and Tom’s bedroom. At least they didn’t kill him in there. I’d never sleep again. As it is, I take trazodone and clonidine just to get a fitful night of sleep riddled with nightmares that they’ll come for me in the night and slit my throat.

“Who is it?” I ask, but my voice is now almost a whisper. I don’t want to know who it is, or what they want, or where they came from. I want peace. I want the world to stop being evil and my dreams to stop tormenting me. I want to know why this happened to me and how I can go back to the way things used to be.

I want Tom’s ghost to stop haunting me, for the night terrors to leave and let me rest. My bare feet touch the cold, hard wood, and I shiver. But the shivers are mostly fear, or thyroid deficiency. I can’t tell which. Sometimes, I get so cold I can’t warm up, and I sit and shake for hours. The therapist said it’s adrenal fatigue brought on by constant fight or flight. I say it’s my body’s way of telling me I’m not safe.

The thump happens again, and I freeze. I’m right outside the bathroom door now, halfway down the hall. It’s so dark I can’t make out anything, but I can hear. It’s like my ears are tuned into a new frequency undetected on normal occasions, but since my eyes aren’t working I have supersonic hearing. They’re in my bedroom. I’d swear to it.

The therapist says this is normal, too—auditory hallucinations. I’ve done this twice a week since it happened, since they snuck in and gunned him down while he was working. They didn’t know I was in the house. I lay under the bed to hide from them. Only after the house went silent for more than twenty minutes did I come out, when I heard sirens in the distance.

“Who is it?” I ask, but this time my voice really is a whisper. So quiet no one could hear me, even if they were standing right in front of me. This is all in my head, right? I’m imagining this just the same way I’ve imagined it the past thirty-one times. It’s in my head. It’s not real. I am safe. They’re not here. Right? Tell me I’m right. Tell me I’m not crazy.

But the doorknob moves. It’s the kind with the little handle you push down, not the round knob sort that you twist. Tom insisted. He said the cat would be able to get out of rooms on his own if we used this type. The cat… fuck.

I breathe a sigh of relief and take a step toward the door. Of course it’s just the cat. I must have trapped him in the room when I changed out of my work clothes into this T-shirt and shorts. Poor Boots is probably starving, and all I can think about is my next drink or when my next therapy appointment is.

“Fuck’s sake, Boots, you scared the fuck out of me,” I mumble to myself as I walk up the hall. The damn cat is going to get it. I’m going to need to do something about this too. I move closer, but three feet from the door, something feels off.

Boots takes his time getting the door open. He has to pull that damn handle several times before it springs free, and then he has to nudgethe cracked door with his nose. But this door swings open wide, and instantly, panic freezes my heart. But my legs move. Oh, fuck, do they move. I back away like a bomb exploded in front of me, and a man lurches through my bedroom door.

“Oh, my God!” My body reacts faster than my mind engages, and I run. The plant stand, placed near the back door where the southern sun shines in the window every morning, wobbles when I bump into it. Had I been forward thinking, I’d have tossed it in his path, but it topples in his way anyway, tripping him up.

Still, he comes, stumbling and flailing his arms in the air as I push into the bathroom and force the door shut on his fingers. He screams and pushes, but I throw my body weight into it again and again, smashing his fingers until he pulls them out, and the instant the door latches, I lock it and turn on the light.

“Shit, oh, shit!”

I’m momentarily blinded as the banging ensues. He’s pounding on the door with something. His fists, maybe? Or something hard.

“Open the door, bitch!” His shout terrifies me. He’s loud and angry. I almost feel like he will bust it down with just his fists, though I know it’s solid oak.

I look to the window, but I know it’s painted shut. I could smash it, but I’d cut myself to shreds climbing out. My phone is out there, on the end table next to the empty glass. The whiskey bottle is on the floor, dropped when I got startled.

“Open up! Give me the goddamn money.” He bangs harder, louder. My insides shake with each blow. I raise the gun and point it at the door. I’m not safe. This can’t be happening. How could Tom put me in this situation? Why am I here now? Why are they after me?

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