Chapter 10 Ilsa #2
“That man loved bluebirds. He said they meant good fortune. The first time I called him that it was only a joke, but he liked it, so I kept using it.” A hint of sadness crept into her tone.
Mom and Dad might have been divorced, but a decree didn’t make the feelings stop. She was mourning his loss too.
The timer dinged, loud enough Mom heard it.
“I’d better let you get to that lasagna. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. Bye.”
I hung up and took my dinner out of the oven, giving it time to cool before I sat down alone and ate my meal.
There was plenty left over, so I covered the pan in foil and stowed it in the fridge.
Then I did the dishes, put the house to rights and added another log to the fire before shutting off the lights and retreating to my room with Dad’s journal tucked under my arm.
Reading it before bed would probably give me strange dreams, but for some reason, I didn’t want to leave it in the living room.
“Paranoid much, Ilsa?” I asked, tossing the journal on my bed. “Yes. And apparently, also talking to yourself.”
I ducked into the bathroom to wash my face, but instead of turning on the water, I took a long, hard look at my reflection. At my dark hair. My brown eyes. My nose and forehead and chin.
All features I’d inherited from Dad.
Was this paranoia his doing too? Was I imagining people looking through my windows? Spying on my life? Would I be sharing my own conspiracy theories with Trick the next time I stopped at the bar?
My grandmother—Dad’s mom—had died in Dalton’s nursing home with Alzheimer’s.
I’d never met my grandma, but Mom had known her well enough.
If I asked, she’d tell me about my grandmother’s disease, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the hard truths yet.
I wasn’t ready to admit that all signs pointed to Dad succumbing to the same.
I shook it off and turned on the faucet, letting it run for a moment until the water was hot. Then I washed the makeup from my face.
Once I was dressed in my warmest flannel pajamas, I climbed into bed, foregoing the Danielle Steel romance novel I’d been reading each night—it was after eleven and well past my bedtime. A yawn pulled at my mouth as I flipped off the lamp and snuggled beneath my quilts.
Except as I relaxed into my pillow and closed my eyes, I couldn’t seem to shut off my brain.
Garrack.
G-A-R-R-A-C-K.
The letters seemed to wink behind my eyelids, like the countdown wheel at the beginning of an old black and white movie.
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, trying to block them out, but no matter how long I lay there, I couldn’t fall asleep. By midnight, I gave up on sleep.
“Ugh,” I groaned, sitting up and stretching for the book on my nightstand. But before I could flip on the lamp, a flicker of light flashed on the wall.
I froze, hand poised above my paperback, as I stared into the darkness.
The flicker came again, faint and white, but enough to stir the shadows in my bedroom. I sat upright, my face whipping to the window.
The snow still covered most of the glass, but the drift had settled enough that there was a three-inch sliver at the top of the frame where I could peek outside.
The flicker came again, silver and subtle. Like moonlight.
Except on the drive home from work, the sky had been blanketed in clouds. There was no moon tonight.
My heart climbed into my throat as I whipped the covers from my body and rose to my knees, inching across the mattress toward where it was pushed up against the wall. I lifted to my feet and carefully peered through the window’s narrow slit.
A circle of white bounced across the snow, stretching and shortening—a flashlight held at a person’s side, swinging with a steady stride.
Someone was walking through the forest, heading straight for my house.
I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth as I dropped to my knees. Then I flew off the bed and out the door, hurrying to the kitchen to take a knife out of a drawer.
With it clutched tight, I inched through the living room, toward the windows that I’d covered with quilts. The windows that overlooked the yard.
Carefully peeling the blanket away from the glass, I peeked outside, waiting for whoever was walking to pass the house and cross into the yard.
My pulse boomed in my ears as I held my breath, gripping the knife’s handle until my knuckles were white.
Who was out there? Why were they creeping around my house at night? What if they tried to come inside?
My head whipped toward the door, squinting at the deadbolt. It was too dark to make out, but it had to be locked. I’d been locking myself inside for weeks. But if this person wanted to get inside, all it would take was a rock through a window.
Was this the person in the black mask? Maybe it was just someone walking by, out for a late-night stroll along the lake in below-zero temperatures.
It could be Jerry on his way to wherever it was that Jerry lived. Maybe it was Robert or Sue Anne, those neighbors Cosi kept telling me to meet but I’d been avoiding. But why would anyone be out at night when prolonged exposure meant hypothermia?
Oh God. This was bad. This was really, really bad. I was stuck out here alone, in my pajamas with nothing more than a knife. Yes, Dad had guns, but they were all in his bedroom closet, and I hadn’t fired a gun since the last time he’d taken me target shooting the summer I was sixteen.
My head was spinning so fast my vision skipped.
“Breathe,” I whispered, forcing air into my lungs.
I shifted on my toes, keeping low. The yard was covered in gray, the only light coming from the single bulb outside the front door.
I squinted into the night, breath lodged in my throat as I waited for that white flashlight.
Every second was agony and my muscles trembled.
But the light never came. I clutched the windowsill, holding it tight as a minute passed, then two.
Where were they? Had they shut off their light? Or was this a dream? Was I imagining this entire episode, and any minute now, I’d wake up, warm in my bed, with all the knives shut in their drawers?
Sweat beaded at my temples as I set the knife on the floor, slowly rising to peer around the edge of the house. As I shifted, a glow caught my eye. Not white, like the flashlight, but orange and red.
I stood tall, my mouth falling slack as the flames grew higher and higher, smoke curling into the night. And with my cheek pressed against cold glass, I stared at Dad’s tiny shed.
Burning to the ground.