Page 13 of The Fate Factor

I stare at the front door and try to judge how many steps I am from a mattress. Filling my lungs is still epically painful, so I’m surviving on shallow pants of air. My knee is screaming at me to stop trying to use it.

Fuck it. The couch will be fine.

I find the key on my ring and lean against the wall while I attempt to push it into the lock. It slides in, but the damn thing won’t turn. My fingers are sweaty because I’m still fighting to not throw up, and when I pull it out to try again, the key slips out of my hand, barely missing falling through the slats of the porch.

It might as well have. It looks like it’s a million miles away lying there beside my sneaker. Without thinking, I slam my palm into the door in frustration, and blinding pain shoots through my ribs. I stumble backward until I hit the railing and slide down to the floor to get the weight off of my knee. As soon as I feel the floorboards beneath me, my body taps out. My vision flickers like an incoming power outage and all of my muscles go lax. I take a shallow breath that hurts like nothing else, and the world goes black.

four

Noel

Adisturbingthudyanksmefrom my sleep. Sitting up sharply, I clock my surroundings in the dim light from my nightlight—my blue suitcase lying open on the dresser, my glass of water on the bedside table—and let out a shaky breath. It must have been a bad dream. I’ve always slept like the dead here, with the ocean air and Nana’s cozy quilts, but this isn’t a normal trip.

Something scrapes along the wood outside the cottage, and I freeze.

I’m not dreaming now, and I definitely heard that. So did Pixie. Her ears are pinned back, tail puffed.

I look at the clock. Only just past eleven, but with the rest of the street put away for the season, it’s pitch black outside.

Hands shaking, I swing my bare feet to the floor and creep toward the window. A light breeze rustles through the dying beach roses, not nearly hard enough to cause the noise I heard. To the left, a silver sports car is parked haphazardly in the driveway, like someone killed the engine the minute all four tires were off the road.

No normal visitor would park like that, and since it’s the middle of the night and I don’t know anyone in Maine besides Kate, there’s no such thing as a normal visitor in this scenario.

My chest goes clammy, sweat springing up even in the mild, indoor temperature.

It can’t hurt you if you don’t let it, Noel.

Though, externally my mantra loses some of its power. I’m small boned, and gravitate toward therapeutic exercise like walking and yoga versus the strength-building kind. If whoever is out there lurking wants to hurt me, no amount of self-hype can keep it from happening.

This was a terrible idea, sleeping here alone in the off-season. I’m just asking to end up on a true crime documentary. I don’t know why Ieverlisten to Kate.

I grab one of my high heeled pumps out of my suitcase and hold it over my head as I slink down the narrow staircase in a cotton cami and a pair of sleep shorts. I wish I’d grabbed a sweatshirt or something. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it not be with my nipples pointed at my murderer.

I slow at the landing, pushing to the balls of my bare feet, listening.Nothing.

Maybe it was just a friendly raccoon or a lost seagull. Though that last thump sounded at least two hundred pounds heavier than a bird.

Channeling a whole lot of fake courage, I lunge for the front door, ripping it open with one hand, weapon in the other, and see… nothing.

My breath rushes out, a puff of mist in the chilly night air. But when I turn to go back inside, something catches in my peripheral vision, and I turn back into a statue. A sneaker. That was definitely not there before. Heart in my throat, I peek my head out a little farther despite my body screaming at me to go back inside. The sneaker is untied, seemingly on purpose, and it’s attached to a bare leg—hairy and definitely male—sticking out of athletic shorts. I have to crane my neck a little more to see his torso and the white T-shirt that’s covered in some sort of…

Oh my God, that’s blood. There’s blood on that guy’s shirt!

At my banshee-like shrieking, the man on my porch startles upright, then clutches an arm around his middle and makes a sound like a wounded animal before crumpling back to the floor.

“Fuuuuck.” His voice is like air whistling over sandpaper as he brings his knees to his chest.

“I have a weapon,” I shout. It’s a stretch but given he’s already bleeding, I might be able to take him.

He coughs, then whimpers again. “What?”

“I have a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.” I picture myself actually attempting to subdue this man with a shoe and I realize I am absolutely afraid to use it. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

He glances at me through slits, then rolls to his side and seems to go back to sleep. “Just kill me if you’re going to. I’m in too much pain to care.”

What in the holy hell is happening here? Did this guy get into an accident and crawl all the way to my porch? Does he owe someone money? I can safely say that out of all the nights I’ve spent in this house, this is the first time I’ve found a bloodied man at the door!

Moonlight shines on his body—curled in the fetal position, labored breathing—and I creep closer. Rationally I don’t think he’s in any condition to hurt me. There’s no way he’s faking thepain on his face, unless he’s hiding an Academy Award in the gym bag at his feet.

---