Chapter 3
Juliet
The screwdriver slipped from my grip again, clattering against concrete as wind whipped rainwater sideways into my eyes.
My fourth attempt to unscrew the floodlight casing became a battle against the storm itself—fingers numb beneath dripping sleeves, soggy sweater suctioned to my skin like a second layer of regret.
Lightning cracked the sky open three miles west, the delayed rumble vibrating through my molars.
These damn lights had to be turned off. I’d never get to sleep with them shining in my windows, plus they draw too much attention.
I had to turn them off. Also, he could find me any minute. Had to make it harder for him.
“Almost…there…” I wedged the flathead against stripped screws, my makeshift ladder—an overturned feed bucket—wobbling beneath wet socks.
Every flicker of illumination from the remaining security lights felt like a homing beacon.
They’ll see. He’ll see. The mantra coiled tighter with each gust, snapping the oak branches overhead.
This paranoia had only gotten worse in the past few months.
I didn’t enjoy living in fear, shouldn’t have had to.
If I had parents who cared more about me than their bottom line, I wouldn’t have had to.
Metal screeched as the bulb housing finally gave.
Darkness swallowed the eastern corner of the garage apartment just as hail began pelting the corrugated roof.
Triumph burned acidic in my throat. Finally, this was working.
Hope Mr. Baucaum wouldn’t be pissed that I undid these, but why should he?
Not his apartment. I didn’t hurt anything.
A sizzle-pop overhead. The world dropped into black. Dammit.
I froze mid-reach for the next light, arm outstretched toward nothingness. No amber glow from the coach lights. No humming streetlamp at the property’s edge. Just the keening wind and the sudden, suffocating awareness of being silhouetted against a dead apartment.
“No. No.” The screwdriver slipped from trembling fingers. Hail stung my scalp as I scrambled off the bucket, socks slopping through wet grass. Three stumbling steps toward the exterior stairs when thunder detonated directly overhead—a cannon crack splitting the night.
I ran.
Rain needled my face as I took the steps two at a time, cardigan snagging on the wood rail. The deadbolt resisted twice before surrendering, my shoulder slamming the swollen doorframe hard enough to leave tomorrow’s bruise.
“Three locks.” Breath sawed between chattering teeth as I twisted each deadbolt. “Three windows.” Palm slapped every sash handle—bedroom, bathroom, living room. “Solid metal door.” Forehead pressed against it as another lightning burst illuminated the room in strobe-flashes.
Alarm system. Right. The alarm system.
I fumbled toward the breaker box beside the fridge. Dripping sleeves left dark Rorschach patterns on the wood floors as I flipped switches with numb fingers. Nothing. Not even the faint digital chirp of resetting electronics. There’s a storm. Transformers blow. It happens.
“Okay. Okay, think.” My reflection in the microwave door showed a drowned alley cat—black dyed hair looking darker than ever, bangs plastered to furrowed brows. “Candles in jars around the rooms. Lighter, kitchen drawer.”
A matte black lighter from Pearl’s Bar caught on the first strike. Flame sputtered as I touched it to wicks—vanilla-scented from the Dollar General. Shadows reared up along the walls like restless phantoms.
Living room first. Then bedroom. The flame trembled as I passed the double-pane window overlooking the driveway. Something moved in the periphery. Is that a shadow detaching itself from the swaying pecan trees?
I spun, lighter raised like a talisman.
Nothing but my own warped reflection in the rain-lashed glass.
“Stop.” The command bounced off beadboard walls, too thin to convince. “You checked the windows. You—”
The candle in my hand dripped hot wax onto my thumb. I hissed, nearly dropping it. Shadows deepened in the corners where feeble light couldn’t reach. Every creak in the apartment became footsteps. Every moan of wind through the eaves whispered, found you.
I’d barely been here a day. Spoke to Mr. Baucaum a couple of times. I should call him. Desperation fueled the next three candles until the bedroom glowed like a séance circle. Still, the dark pressed in—thick and liquid at the edges of the rug, pooling beneath the dresser.
I backed toward the living room, sopping sock feet soaking floorboards. Twenty-seven steps to make the circuit. Front door handle jiggled. Windows rattled. Three locks held.
Wandering back around. “Calm down, Juliet.”
The bathroom mirror showed a stranger’s face—smudged mascara bleeding into hollows beneath eyes that darted like spooked livestock.
I peeled wet fabric from shuddering skin, each layer hitting the tile with the weight of discarded identities.
My last silk camisole from Neiman Marcus clung stubbornly to wet skin.
A Sponge Bob sweatshirt bought at a Dollar General waited on the bathroom counter.
It was surprisingly soft as I slipped it over my towel-turbaned hair.
A complete mismatch for the beautiful silk panties I’d wear after drying myself off.
It didn’t matter. I’d cover those panties with a baggy pair of flannel pajama pants.
I finished blotting my dripping hair with a fluffy towel and pulled it into a messy bun atop my head. My heart stopped when I swore I saw the vinyl shower curtain sway ever so much. Five seconds staring at floral vinyl until logic overrode instinct. No movement—just my imagination.
Bronc had mentioned the fridge was powered by propane, so it still worked. I wasn’t really hungry, but I knew I had to eat something, and I found the perfect thing—an individual yogurt cup, strawberry swirl. That actually sounded yummy.
Candlelight carved hollows in the living room walls as I settled on the couch.
The first spoonful burst tart-sweet across my tongue.
Somewhere between strawberry and third bite, memory ambushed me—Bronc’s hand brushing my elbow when he kept me from falling at the bus terminal.
His touch felt electric against my skin, even through my sweater.
I wondered how much older he was than me.
Rain lashed the roof as I curled finally dry socked feet beneath me, still thinking about him.
Everything about him was different. It’s ridiculous.
I’m a child compared to him. But being next to him had felt safe.
Why? The way he looks? He is beautiful. His scent?
Yes—scent? Like deserts and earth and leather.
Okay, that’s weird. But it’s true. I’m going insane, clearly.
The spoon clattered against the empty plastic container. Wind howled through the eaves, carrying phantom engine growls. Every muscle tensed. Waiting for headlights that never came.
Keys.
I bolted upright, the yogurt container rolling under the coffee table.
“No. Nononono—”
Pillows flew. Candle flames danced wildly as I overturned a couch cushion. Three years ago, losing a phone meant sending staff to the Apple Store. Tonight, it meant no connection to help if I needed it. Where is my damn phone?
My bedroom? I tried to stay low as I crawled along baseboards, hunting metallic glints. Behind me, floorboards groaned.
“Not now,” I hissed to the empty room. To myself. To ghosts wearing Armani suits.
I finally rushed to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers.
Steak knives and takeout menus. No phone.
Was that knocking on the front door? I ran to the bathroom, under the towel on the counter.
No phone. Where is it? The bedroom search turned feral.
The comforter flew, pillows turned over, to no avail.
Pure panic had set in. My sobs blurred my vision.
A blue glow pulsed beneath the dresser. I lunged, cracking elbows on the hardwood. Fourteen percent battery. Three bars of service. Three unanswered texts from Bronc time-stamped 7:03 PM:
How ‘bout I pick you up tomorrow at 5:45 am sharp?
I walked to the kitchen, reading.
The last message arrived eight minutes ago:
Power’s out at your place. You good?
I stopped. I typed. Lost my phone earlier, just found it. All good here. Deleted. Rewrote No lights but I’ve got candles. See you at 5:45. Backspaced again. What is wrong with me?
The window above the kitchen sink rattled. Not wind this time—something solid tapping the glass.
The lighter clattered to the floor when the floodlights blazed across the yard. My spine hit the refrigerator door, cold condensation bleeding through the Sponge Bob sweatshirt. Three violent thumps shook the window above the sink, the same cadence as knuckles rapping on a limo’s privacy glass.
He found you.
Candle flames bent sideways as I sprinted past. Fingers numb, I tore open the deadbolt. Metal shrieked against weather stripping. Night air slapped my face, carrying diesel fumes and something darker—vetiver cologne clinging to memory.
“Julia.”
Thunder cracked as lightning arced across the plains.
Silverback silhouette resolved into Bronc’s waterlogged form, black denim plastered to tree-trunk thighs.
Rain sluiced off his stubble, caught the flicker of candles behind me.
His shadow stretched monstrously across the porch wall; wind whipped his hair wild.
I swayed in the doorway, torn between slamming the metal against his chest and clawing him inside. “You…the texts said…”
“Didn’t answer.” He shouldered past, bringing the storm with him.
Wet boots left wet prints on the entry rug.
“Left six goddamn voicemails. You think this—” A calloused hand swept toward the gutted light fixtures, the scattered steak knives gleaming dully near the baseboards.
“—is the best way to keep yourself safe?”