Page 10 of Holiday Star
No way to call 911.
No way to get help.
A million scenarios run through my mind and in most of them I end up dead. What if he has a knife? A gun? Is he going to rob me? Kill me?
I glance down at the still-sleeping Pip.
Not much of a guard dog, that’s for sure.
Stealthily, I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the slightly open bedroom door. Pressing my ear to the crack, I hear the sound of cupboards being flung open and slammed shut.
The thief is ransacking the house.
I’m angry. An uncharacteristic deep rage washes over me as the need to protect my family floods my system. How dare he? What awful criminal breaks into someone’s house and steals from them? My mom has had enough hardship in her life. I can’t call her tomorrow and tell her that all of her valuables have been stolen. I won’t put her through yet another trauma.
A steely determination grips me. I won’t sit here and hide like some little mouse. I’m going to stop this intruder, get to my phone, and call the police.
I willnotbe the victim tonight.
Slowly, I ease the door open further and creep out into the hall. I remember a large wrench, red with rust stains, that a worker left in the hallway bathroom. Padding to that room, I grab it, liking the heft of it in my hands. The cool metal warms quickly to my touch.
Easing through each step, I creep down the stairs. In my old home I had known every loose, creaky floorboard, but I haven’t spent as much time in this house, so I make my way gingerly. The last thing I want is to give the intruder warning before I strike.
Large wet shoe prints, slowly drying, lead from the front door to the kitchen. Judging by their size, the man must be huge.
I swallow thickly.
On the bottom stair, I see his shadow. It looks like there’s only one culprit. I peek around the corner. He’s in the kitchen, searching through the cupboards and drawers, with his back to me.
My stomach tightens in fear. I grip the wrench tighter, my palms sweaty.
Without warning, I leap into the kitchen, raise my arms above my head, and, using all my weight, swing the wrench at his head. I bring it down like it’s a baseball bat and I’m going for the winning home run.
There’s a loud thwack. The man drops heavily to the floor. He ends up with his head out of sight, hidden behind the kitchen island.
At that moment, a piercing whistle rings through the house, so startling that I drop the wrench. It lands with a clatter on the tile floor. I clap my hands over my ears and look around, trying to find out where the noise is coming from. It’s painfully loud, wailing on and on.
My eyes land on the source of that terrible sound. It’s a tea kettle, sitting on the stovetop with steam rising in a twisting white ribbon from its spout. Behind it on the counter sits a mug with a tea bag in it.
That’s…weird.
I don’t know a lot about criminals, but I doubt they make a cup of tea while they rob a place.
My gaze falls to the damp sneakered feet and the jean-clad legs of the intruder.
Slowly, I edge my way around the island to see who I’ve knocked out. Inch by inch, the man comes into view, starting from his legs and moving up.
Dark wash jeans accentuate a narrow waist.
A gray t-shirt that’s ridden up, exposing a slice of tanned and toned six-pack abs.
Large hands with their fingers lightly curled.
Corded forearms that lead to broad shoulders.
A strong jaw, stubble coated with fair hair that glints in the kitchen lights.
Full pouty lips.
