Page 55 of Traitor
“I came here to ask you to go home, but now I’m telling you. Go home. Whether or not I’m making a mistake is my business. You don’t know Ford, and whatever happened to him in his past is his to decide how to tell me. Drive safe,” I tell him, then toss a five on the table. “This should pay for the drinks.”
He stops me with a hand on my arm. “Wait.” It’s only the panic in his voice that keeps me from yanking free. He pulls out a knife, a small pocketknife of some kind, and tucks it in my jeans. “You can be mad at me, that’s fine, but I want you to keep this with you at all times. In case of an emergency.”
I walk out on legs as steady as jelly, my world shaken, exactly as Uncle Bradley had intended. Except he figured I’d be the same frightened girl who had hidden when her parents were murdered. I’m not going to hide, I’m not going to run.
Not even from the secrets Ford is keeping.
Thirty minutes later,I climb up the steps to my rental, a cold sweat prickling over my skin. I should have called a cab, should have asked Nell for a ride, but I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, needed the fresh, crisp air to clear my head. I’m tired of letting everyone else dictate my life.
I plan to call Ford, maybe work on some art, but first I need the restroom. I’m finishing up my business when I hear a door jiggle and then open. I can’t tell if it’s the front or the back, and I don’t know which is worse.
I pause with my pants still somewhere around my ankles. At first, I figure the trepidation that curls around the back of my neck is embarrassment and the responding vulnerability at being caught using the bathroom, but the alarm is all too swift and familiar.
There’s someone else in the house.
All I can think isNo, not again.
Adrenaline spurts through my body and everything speeds up and slows down at the same time. I freeze in the action of pulling my pants up, afraid to make any sound for fear whoever came inside will realize I’m here. It could be Nell checking on me at Ford’s request, but the lengthy pauses between footsteps indicate the person inside is being careful not to draw any attention to themselves.
They don’t want to be caught.
If it was someone I knew, they would have let me know they were coming. Or they would have knocked. I almost have a hard time trusting my own instincts. It wouldn’t be the first time that I imagined something along these lines. Someone in the house, stalking me, waiting for me. Things misplaced, scents in the air that weren’t there. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.
Maybe I am. Sometimes it feels like it.
Focus.
As the footsteps grow closer, I wrap my arms around myself to stem the shaking that threatens to overtake me. Then I remember there’s no car in the drive. Whoever it is should have left when they realized there was no one home.
Either way, I’m stuck in a house with a person who shouldn’t be here. Or confined with my own demons.
I’m not sure which is worse.
Their footsteps stop at the bathroom door and tears slip down my cheeks and spill onto my naked lap. If they chance opening the door, I’m screwed. I glance around, but there’s nothing in my immediate vicinity that I can use to defend myself. Even worse, my legs are starting to go numb from sitting for too long. The helplessness is paralyzing. And here I’d thought I’d be able to confront the monsters in the dark if I ever came face-to-face with one again.
But I’m anything but brave like I’d insisted to Uncle Bradley.
In fact, instead of staying to fight, my first response is to flee. The window to my left is too small for me to wiggle my way through, but I latch onto it anyway. Carefully, as I hear the footsteps move on from outside the bathroom to other parts of the living area, I get back to my feet and finish pulling up my pants and zipping them as quietly as possible. I give a passing thought to locking the bathroom door, but I’m afraid even that small sound will give me away.
The bathroom window is maybe ten inches across, if that. Even if it wasn’t painted shut and I could fit through it, there’s a fence underneath that bisects the yard between my house and the forest next to it. Sweat pops out on my skin, my hands grow damp, and my heart races more as the feeling of the walls closing in around me increases.
I know this only ends one of a couple ways. The person will find what they’re looking for and leave, which is the least likely. They’ll get spooked and light out at the first sound, or they’ll find me in their search and do God only knows what to me.
As I think it, their footsteps recede away, and I let out a long, silent breath. Maybe today is my lucky day. I could be wrong and its only Nell or my uncle coming to check on me, and it’s my overactive imagination running wild again. I almost open the door to call out to them, until I hear the footsteps heading toward the back of the house, which isn’t visible to the bathroom door.
I decide I’ll make a dash for the living room where I left my phone. I’ll grab it and then haul ass to the front door and call the police as soon as I’m out in the street around people. No one thinks they’ll get robbed or have their house broken into in the middle of the day. There’s something about the reassuring presence of sunlight that belies the danger, but that’s what makes it all the more terrifying.
I whip around the corner, my eyes on the hallway leading to the backdoor, but no one’s there. Three careful steps, then I’m in the living room. My phone is a couple feet away and that’s where I should be going. And I take a step in the direction of sensibility—to the coffee table where my phone lies in wait—and contemplate my next move.
This isn’t going to happen to me again. I won’t let it. I complete the distance, dialing 9-1-1 before I can second-guess myself. I know what I heard. There’s someone in the house who shouldn’t be there. They answer on the second ring.
I don’t give them time to ask the questions I know are coming. I give my address. “There’s an intruder in the house. I’m alone.” Then I hang up the phone and continue to the hall. They said a cruiser was five minutes away, but that could be five minutes too late.
Three years ago, I waited…and it cost me everything.
My therapist would say my reckless behavior is self-destructive. My therapist is an idiot, I decide, and tiptoe to the kitchen.
Whoever was in the house could be the person who tampered with our brakes. I can’t let them get away without at least trying to determine who it is—and what they want. I pull out the knife Uncle Bradley had given me and flip it open with shaky hands.
