Chapter 29
Harlyn
Iclose the lid to my laptop after another fruitless search. You’d think since Boone’s injury made the news, they would do a follow-up story so I could find out how he’s doing, but there haven’t been any updates in the past week.
I’ve almost broken down and called the hospital to ask, but I know they won’t release any of his information to me.
The knock on the door startles me, but a giddy feeling of excitement fills my stomach. No one knows where I am, not even Liv, and I don’t have to worry about William Rollins anymore. There has been a shortage of his story on the news, though I’ve been avoiding those. Maybe it could it be Boone?
I walk toward the door and place my palm on the cool wood. I’m just about to look out the sidelight window and ask who it is, but instead, I flip the lock and open it. I need to stop seeing the boogeyman in everything.
Uncertain excitement turns to apprehension in less than a heartbeat. Boone is not at my door, but someone is, and his face is almost familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Can I help you?” I ask with my hand still on the doorknob, ready to close it at a moment’s notice.
One side of the man’s mouth curls up in a smile, but something about it feels wrong.
“Sorry to bother you,” he starts, then he looks down almost shyly.
When the bill of his hat covers most of his face, I suddenly realize why he looks familiar.
He was my rideshare driver, the same man I saw in the shops in Michigan, but that isn’t all.
Now that I’ve seen his entire face, other memories come flooding back—him at my work, seated in a booth out of my section, him walking around the campus as just another face in the crowd.
I step back and start to slam the door, but he’s faster, kicking his foot into the threshold so the door bounces uselessly off his boot and slams into my hands on the return. I step back again, creating distance that I already know will be useless.
He steps inside the old farmhouse, looking around at the high ceiling of the foyer as if he’s an invited guest. My heart is beating so fast, I think I might actually be having a heart attack.
I think about screaming, but no one would hear me.
There’s no point in wasting my breath. I picked this place for many reasons, the first being I thought I was safe.
The man who killed my sister and stalked me was supposed to be dead, and I wanted to prove I didn’t have to live in fear. I was so wrong.
I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is the man who murdered Hayzel and wants to do the same to me.
He closes the door behind him once he’s inside and engages the deadbolt before facing me and saying, “Hello, Harlyn.”
I spin and take off in a run, hoping to make it to the back door. I expect to feel him behind me, or at least hear him chasing me, but instead, he laughs with so much joy, it almost feels like I’m missing something, like this was all just a sick joke and everything is going to be okay.
I collide with the door to the garage, uselessly twisting the locked knob before my shaking fingers grab the little nub to unlock it, wasting precious seconds. I chance a look behind me to see the man carelessly moseying through the kitchen while running his palm along the counter.
I step into the dark garage and slam my hand on the pad to open the bay door.
It whines to life, lifting a mere few inches before loudly ticking to a halt as if it’s stuck.
I waste a few seconds staring at the door before realizing he must have sabotaged it.
Feeling lost, I try the door handle of my car.
It opens easily, but I already know it won’t be much help.
The keys are inside the house with my purse and phone.
I’m trapped. The nearest neighbor is probably a quarter mile away. I could run that far if I could get out of this damn garage. A scream of frustration spills from my throat, followed by his maniacal laugh.
He planned this. While I was wallowing in self-pity about leaving Boone, he was plotting.
Indignant rage eats away at the fear. If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going to make it easy.
I run toward the wall, searching for anything I could use as a weapon.
I knock a half full paint can to the concrete floor along with some other useless containers.
I almost pass my hand over an aerosol can of wasp spray but grab it and the can next to it. Popping the lid off both, I slip one into the waistband at the back of my pants while keeping my finger on the nozzle of the second.
Seconds pass with me standing on the far end of the garage, expecting him to burst through the door at any moment, but nothing happens.
I glance back at the bay door, wondering if he’s waiting to see if I will try to squeeze out the small opening, or if he’s just on the other side of the door in the house, lying in wait.
I move around the car, putting it between me and both would-be exits, and crouch.
A flurry of thoughts race through my head.
Should I try to find something to wedge under the garage door to open it farther and make a run for it?
Should I only pretend to get out and hide in the trunk to see if he will leave to go look for me?
I’m breathing so heavily, he can probably hear me panting in the house.
I can’t calm down, can’t think clearly enough to come up with a plan, and worst of all, I’m losing hope.
I cover my mouth with my free hand as a sob threatens to slip free. The sudden urge to pee is almost impossible to ignore, making me feel completely out of control. I don’t know what to do. Why the hell did I come here? Why didn’t I spend what little time I had left with Boone?
“Harlyn…” He calls my name in a singsong voice like a taunting child.
It scratches at a long-lost memory of a boy who used to say my name that way.
Flashes of a time in my life I try to ignore filter through my mind—a boy on a bike, his hair so messy it bordered on matted.
He was woefully thin. Most of the other boys in our grade had round faces and chubby cheeks, but his were slightly sunken.
His skin was always tinted pink, like he had a constant sunburn, and that made sense to me, because he was always outside, usually riding his bike.
“Harlyn.” The taunt is still there, but he’s more insistent, demanding. Please, God, please, God, make him go away, I pray, even though I know God has nothing to do with this.
The door to the garage is ripped open so hard, the knob slams against the interior wall. I don’t move, can’t move. My entire body feels frozen.
I hear his boot hit the single wooden stair then the other land on the garage floor, crunching dirt. My head starts to feel fuzzy, and I realize I’m holding my breath. My exhale is rushed and noisy.
“Are we playing hide-and-seek?” His question feels genuine, conversational even, as if this is really just a game to him. “It doesn’t seem fair since you didn’t have time to hide. Should I cover my eyes and count?”
Movement catches my attention. Through the rear window of the car, I watch him lift his arm as if to shield part of his face. I don’t know if his confidence that I will be so easy to kill terrifies me or pisses me off.
I duck farther down, gripping the can tightly as I cradle it against my chest. I need him to get close enough for the spray to be effective, but every step he takes closer to rounding the car makes me want to run.
The muscles in my calves and thighs are twitching, demanding use, but I ignore the nagging urge.
“Do you want to play, Harlyn?” A small squeak sounds right after his question, making me think he’s dragging his fingertips over the surface of the car, proving how much closer he really is. The second he steps around the back, he’s going to be able to see me.
Panic spurs me to move, and I end up falling right on my butt. He hops forward, his arms positioned wide, and shouts, “Gotcha!”
I scream so hard my throat burns, but thank fuck I still raise my hand and push down on the nozzle.
There’s this moment where time seems to stand still.
His brows are drawn in confusion, but his mouth is still open wide.
The spray hisses out of the can in an unexpectedly powerful stream.
The narrow focus doesn’t hit directly in his eyes or mouth like I hoped, but it’s still effective.
He lifts his hand to block his face and turns away, gagging and coughing like mad.
I scramble around and climb up off the floor to run back into the house.
This time, I feel him behind me and hear his feet stomping as he bursts into action.
Another scream escapes me as I jerk open the door to enter the house.
I have less than a heartbeat to decide if I’m going to risk trying to close and lock the door behind me or just run.
Without looking back, I launch the can over my shoulder.
He makes a small sound of surprise before I hear it clatter to the ground.
I spin and shove the door closed just in time to feel him slam into it, making it shudder against the frame.
Thankfully, the latch had time to catch so it doesn’t flop open.
I reach down and twist the tiny nub, knowing the small lock isn’t nearly enough to keep him out, especially with the way he’s roaring and slamming against the door.
My back hits the wall behind me, digging the spare can of bug spray into my back as I watch the door threaten to buckle. “Go away!” I scream, holding my head in my hands.