Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAYA
By the time we reach the flat, Lila is a warm, sleepy weight by my side, her head tucked beneath my chin.
Her curls smell like strawberries and a little dab of the bubble bath she insisted on this morning.
She doesn’t stir when I unlock the door, just sighs softly and clutches the collar of my coat in her tiny fist.
The flat is dark and quiet, exactly how I left it. Still, I kick the door shut with my heel and deadbolt it immediately. Top lock. Bottom lock. Chain. Then I double-check the peephole and flick the hallway light on. My keys go in the ceramic bowl by the door. I only exhale once they clink.
Lila’s room is warm from the radiator, her favourite teddies arranged along the edge of the bed like a protective wall of plush animals. I lower her down gently, easing off her coat and shoes as carefully as I can. She stirs when I tug the blanket over her but doesn’t wake.
“Love you,” I whisper, brushing a curl from her cheek.
She sighs again in her sleep and clutches her panda tighter.
Back in the hall, I make my rounds like I always do.
Kitchen window; locked. Living room; locked.
Door; triple locked and bolted. Bathroom window; secure.
I check the smoke alarms too, even though I already did it this morning.
The hallway camera blinks its little blue light at me, still recording, still watching.
I added it last year after I had a bad dream and thought I heard footsteps on the stairs.
When I finally drop onto the sofa, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
The tea I make is herbal and calming, or so the box says, but the tremble in my hands as I pour the water tells a different story. I tuck my knees up and hold the mug close to my chest, trying to quiet my mind.
The flat has the faintest smell of bleach from my obsession with having everything clean.
I glance at the front door again. Locked. Chained. Secured.
It’s not like today was dangerous. Nothing happened. No shadows lurking, no strange calls, no wrong cars parked across the road.
But it’s always like this after a delay, like yesterday, when the childminder was late. I can feel it crawling over me now, that old familiar dread. It wraps around my spine and settles into my stomach like something living.
He’s not here.
He doesn’t know where you are.
You’re safe.
The tea helps, a little. So does thinking about Lila laughing with Owen. About how gentle he was with her. How patient. And not in that fake, performative way men sometimes use to impress, no, he actually saw her. Saw both of us. And stayed.
Mr Bear.
I smile into my tea for half a second before the smile fades.
It’s dangerous, letting someone in. Even someone kind. Especially someone kind. That’s how it started last time, too.
It’s been years since I’ve thought of that night. But it comes back now, uninvited.
I was standing in the hallway, just like I did tonight. Same stance. Checking locks. He was already drunk, but I hadn’t known yet. I was still pretending it was just a bad day. Still telling myself I’d made him angry.
I remember the sound of the glass, how loud it was when it smashed against the doorframe. He missed me. But not by much.
Lila had been in my arms then too, just a baby, soft and warm and too small for this world. I remember curling around her like a shield. I remember how loud the yelling was. How cold the floor felt when I slipped trying to get away. How long it took the bruise on my hip to fade.
I remember the silence after.
His voice, suddenly calm, saying, Look what you made me do.
That was the night I stopped trying to fix it.
A creak pulls me back to the present. Just the pipes. I breathe deep. Count to five. Set the empty mug in the sink and double-check the door again.
In bed, I tuck the duvet under my feet like a cocoon and set my phone on the nightstand, fully charged. The security alarm is on. The doors are locked. The camera’s working.
I’ve done everything right. And still, I can’t sleep.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how Owen offered to drive us home tonight. How he didn’t press or ask why when I insisted the taxi was fine. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to offer someone safety.
I liked the way it felt, just for a moment, like I wasn’t doing this all on my own.
But I am.
I always am.
The alarm screams at 2:47 AM.
My eyes fly open.
I’m upright before I even register the movement, breath caught in my throat, heart hammering like it’s trying to break through my ribs. The wailing from the hall is deafening; high-pitched, mechanical, and wrong.
I grab the rolling pin from under my pillow and slide out of bed on shaking legs.
Lila.
I run to her room first.
She’s still asleep, somehow, one hand fisted in her bunny’s ear, the other tucked beneath her cheek. I flick the light on just to be sure.
Still breathing.
Safe.
My hands are trembling so badly I almost drop the rolling pin.
I force myself down the hall, every footstep like a weight.
I can’t hear anything except the alarm. Can’t see anything through the peephole.
I press my back to the wall and use the remote on the alarm panel.
The sound cuts out, leaving only a ringing in my ears.
I stand there, panting, listening.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No shadow under the door.
Just silence.
The app on my phone confirms it; fault in the system. Glitch. Motion sensor error.
But my body doesn’t believe it. My body still thinks I’m in danger.
I check every window. Every door. I reset the alarm. I lock and re-lock and triple check. Still, I can’t stop shaking.
Back in Lila’s room, the warmth hits me like a wave. She’s so small. So soft. She doesn’t know any of this. I want to keep it that way.
I slide into bed beside her and pull the blanket over us both.
She stirs just slightly, turning into me, her head resting against my chest.
My eyes sting.
I won’t cry. I won’t fall apart. I just need the sun to come up. I just need to make it until morning.
My hand rests gently on her back, feeling each tiny breath she takes.
For tonight, this is where I’ll stay. Right here.
Where I can keep her safe.