Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The clock read after two in the morning when Michelle finally made her way to bed.
Doors were locked and double checked. Her new phone wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, meaning her doorbell apps had no way to notify her if anyone came near.
The idea that Sheriff Perkins was trying to call the tragedy in Iron Falls a suicide had Michelle unnerved.
For a few minutes, she lay looking up at the familiar ceiling. Her mind raced with uncertainty.
The crackle of flames eating away at her father’s home played on the ceiling like a movie.
The scent of burning wood filled her nostrils.
She knew that these were memories, yet they seemed real enough for her flesh to warm.
Finally, Michelle threw back her blankets and went into her closet.
Turning on the light, she pulled out a step stool and climbed.
The small gun safe was where she remembered.
Shocking even herself, she brought it down from the top shelf.
It had been years since her dad’s lessons.
So, Michelle did what anyone would do. She went back to her office, put her computer in incognito mode, and went to YouTube.
Her hands trembled as she laid six cartridges on her desk.
Next, she picked up the empty magazine and one by one, she inserted the cartridges into the magazine.
More than once, she thought about stopping.
Her brain was telling her that she was being ridiculous. Since her brain was turning to mush from stress, sadness, and lack of sleep, Michelle wasn’t sure if it was a reliable source of information.
Once the magazine was filled, she slowed the video and mimicked the movements of inserting the magazine. A click told her it was properly seated. With a firm grip, Michelle pulled the slide backward and released it. The slide sprang forward.
According to the woman on YouTube, that meant a round was in the chamber.
After engaging the safety, she exited YouTube and turned off the lights in her office and bedroom.
A sense of exhaustion crashed over her as she made her way back to her bed.
The Sig Sauer lay on her bedside stand, beside her glass of water and the book she hadn’t yet begun to read.
With too many thoughts competing for space in her mind, Michelle found a bit of reassurance in the presence of the gun. Maybe because it reminded her of her dad or she felt proactive.
Being independent was always important to Michelle.
Even she was surprised when sleep finally came. She expected nightmares or a cascade of tears. After all, the Indianapolis police delivered and confirmed the news she already knew—her father was gone.
The tears would come, she knew they would.
Perhaps she was too drained to cry.
Maybe she was still in shock.
Whatever the cause, sleep was a welcome void.
Michelle wasn’t certain how much time had passed when she woke with a start.
Panic sent her circulation racing. She flung one way and the other, but she barely moved.
She was trapped. A pillow covered her eyes and blocked her vision.
Pressure from a hand pressed against her lips, muting her scream.
The taste and overpowering aroma of cigarettes made her stomach revolt.
This wasn’t a nightmare.
It was real.
Someone was in her house—in her bedroom.
The gruff, unfamiliar voice came as putrid breath skirted her cheeks and neck. “Shut up, bitch.”
Michelle held her breath as her mind scrambled.
“Be a good girl. Don’t scream. Don’t say a word.”
The man’s words rattled through her thoughts.
“Who are you?” she tried to ask, but the movement of her lips intensified the sourness from his hand.
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”
She wouldn’t go down without a fight, kicking her feet and turning her head until she stopped due to a sensation. There was something sharp against her neck. Fear overtook panic and Michelle became stoically still.
He’s going to kill me?
“Don’t worry. You’re only going to sleep.”
Will I wake up?
What is he going to do to me?
These thoughts and more flooded her mind. She recalled something she’d learned about never allowing anyone to take you away. Being taken to a secondary location drastically decreased your chance of survival.
Michelle wanted to survive.
The needle prick didn’t come.
The gun. The one from her dad.
She shoved with the full force of her hands at the unmoving attacker. He cursed and released pressure on her lips as he simultaneously reached for her hands. He had an iron grip on her wrists. The other hand returned to her mouth.
The pillow shifted but not enough to see her attacker. In the darkness of her bedroom, Michelle silently prayed for strength. She recalled the sharp sensation. If he was holding her wrists and mouth, the sharp object wasn’t in his hands.
Although she tasted blood, she continued to fight—thrashing about.
The commotion continued as she struggled to get away from his hold. Grunts and curses competed with the racing circulation in her ears.
A second, then more. Five, six, seven, Michelle gasped for air.
The pressure on her wrists and against her mouth eased. Shadows moved as she scrambled for the gun. Knocking over her glass of water, she found the pistol.
Everything happened so fast.
The mattress of her bed sagged and moved. Blinking once and then twice, she hurried off the side of her bed, her body temperature plummeting. Straightening her arms, she held the gun with both hands.
“Stop,” she yelled toward the giant dark shadow. It was at that moment that she saw a man lying on her bed.
There were two.