Chapter Thirty-Eight
THIRTY-EIGHT
Nicole
The debate had been over for hours by the time Nicole realized she’d missed it.
The worst part was that she didn’t even have a good excuse.
While her sister had been in Watertown battling Bruce Milton, Nicole was standing in her dimly lit garage, staring at the towers of boxes through a film of tears.
It was hard to imagine that things could get worse, but maybe that was na?ve.
Things could always get worse if you let them.
The silence of the garage felt duplicitous, the safety of the cluttered space false.
Beyond the walls was a killer, a neighbor accusing Woody of a crime, a world that was conspiring against them all.
And then there was the intruder. Was it crazy of Nicole to wish she was that girl, the one from the ceiling?
Two days, and the police still hadn’t found her.
Nicole didn’t know exactly what she was running from, but Jenny Smith had refused to stand still and accept her fate, and Nicole envied her that power. The courage to make that choice.
From the corner of the room, somewhere behind the boxes, came a sound.
It was light, something nearly weightless scraping against the wall or floor.
The last thing Nicole needed was an infestation of mice, so she waited.
Listened. The sound didn’t return, but the hairs on her arms had lifted, the memory of finding the phrogger bright and close.
Save yourself, she thought, a reflex, but this time she couldn’t find the strength to move.
Woody would be home soon. The girls too. She should start planning dinner. Call Maureen to apologize. She knew there were several missed calls on her phone, but she hadn’t even bothered to check them.
In the middle of the garage, barricaded by boxes, Nicole waited in the dark for what was coming next.
It came in the form of a call that sent a current down Nicole’s leg. She drew her phone from her back pocket, and—hands shaking—swiped at the screen.
“It’s me,” said Maureen in a tone dark as death. “We need to talk.”