Chapter 1 #2
The first few minutes in the store are fine. I start in the produce section, which is filled with harried moms trying to drag their kids away from the precariously arranged piles of fruits and vegetables. So they don’t have time to worry about me.
But once I hit the baking aisle, that’s when I get the first narrowed glare.
In the dairy section, Mrs. Pilliston bumps into me with her cart with enough force to know it was intentional.
As I’m still rubbing my sore hip, Andrea Rogers walks past me, muttering, “Haven’t you moved yet ? ”
It’s getting harder and harder to keep up my smile.
And I wonder, probably for at least the hundredth time, Why haven’t I moved?
Why am I still living in a town where I’m so clearly unwelcome?
But I know why.
I don’t want to be chased away.
I want to prove I’m not the same person I was at eighteen.
I want to save enough?—
But an industrial-strength sigh interrupts my thoughts.
Glancing up, I meet the cashier’s impatient expression, even though the person in front of me literally just left the checkout line.
“Jessica.” Marilyn Dennings, the cashier and another woman I knew from high school, glares at me. “Would you mind hurrying up? We have a line , you know.”
“Sorry,” I reply automatically. “I didn’t realize?—”
Marilyn sighs again, this time loudly enough to attract the attention of the people around us. “You know, Jessica . There are delivery services. If you can’t handle the simple act of food shopping by yourself.”
It goes without saying, Marilyn isn’t my biggest fan.
My jaw clenches as I reply tightly, “It’s all here, Marilyn. I’m not holding anyone up.”
She stares at me for a few seconds, animosity dripping from her voice as she replies, “Just being here is a distraction. You know that. Why don’t you do your shopping in White Plains or Tarrytown instead?”
Tears of frustration press behind my eyes .
It’s been so long . Why won’t she let it go? Why won’t everyone let it go?
But I don’t say that. I never do. Old Jess would have snapped back at her. Would have put rude Marilyn in her place. That Jess wouldn’t have let anyone talk to her that way.
Now? It’s just easier to put my head down and get through it.
So I finish checking out as quickly as possible, taking over the bagging and practically flinging my groceries into the bags. The second I grab the receipt, I bolt for the exit, cheeks flaming and cursing myself for thinking things might actually be different.
By the time I’m back in the car, the radio set to my favorite folk music station, I feel slightly calmer again. More in control.
And really, I did what I came here for. I got through the shopping trip. Found everything on my list. And now I’m prepared for a quiet weekend of movies and baking and playing my favorite MMORPG, Tenebris Veil .
So what if Marilyn was a snotty jerk, just like she always is?
Who cares about that dumb lady in the dairy section?
I can tell myself that over and over, but it’s still hard to believe it.
On the way to my house on the east side of Sleepy Hollow, I let myself fall into the lyrics of Joni Mitchell and Emmylou Harris and John Denver, feeling the stress of my grocery trip dissolve the further I get from it.
When I was younger, I loved pop and rock, but after coming back here to spend time with my mom, I found I preferred her favorites instead .
Now when I listen to them, it makes me feel closer to her. It makes me remember that she always, always believed in me, even when no one else did.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m back to feeling optimistic again.
A quest tonight with my Tenebris Veil friends. A lazy morning tomorrow, followed by a day of baking. That new mystery movie on Netflix tomorrow night, the one I’ve been waiting to see for months. Coffee with lovely Nora on Sunday morning. Reality-TV-night with too much wine on Monday.
As I pull my grocery bags from the truck and sling them over my arm, I spot my neighbor sweeping—no, not shoveling, sweeping , which seems excessive—the fine dusting of snow from his driveway, and give him a little wave.
He waves back, calling out, “Hey, Jessica. TGIF, right?”
“Right,” I agree, pitching my voice loud enough for him to hear it. “Hope you enjoy your weekend.”
And with another quick wave, I hurry towards the front door, blinking as a few snowflakes blow into my eyes.
I should really get the garage cleaned out , I remind myself for the umpteenth time. I’ve been putting it off for longer than I’d like to admit, reluctant to go through all the boxes of my mom’s things. But it would be nice to actually be able to use the garage, especially when it snows.
Maybe I’ll tackle a few boxes this weekend, at least. See if there’s any clothing worth taking to the thrift shop or community center. That would be infinitely more useful than leaving dozens of perfectly good items sitting in plastic bins in the garage .
I fumble with the key a few times before sliding it home, my partially-numb fingers not wanting to work as I tell them to.
Gloves , I add to my mental to-do list. I need to stash gloves in my purse and car instead of leaving them all in a tote in the closet, where they are doing absolutely nothing to keep my hands warm.
Boy. If I’d known that at thirty-five, I’d be having this many conversations with myself… Now all I need are a few cats and I’ll officially hit spinster status.
As I step into the house, the familiar scent of my cinnamon vanilla air freshener is the first thing that hits me.
I love the aroma because it reminds me of baking, which apart from online gaming and mystery movies, is my next favorite thing.
I lock the door behind me and make my way towards the kitchen, eager to unload my bags that seem to be getting heavier by the second.
I have a few lights on timers, so they’re already on, casting a soft glow in the entryway and living room. On my way through, I click on the electric fireplace, which doesn’t do much in terms of heat but is great for ambiance.
I’m so focused on my after work routine, I don’t notice the difference right away.
It’s only as I’m turning away from the fireplace that I notice—my armchair’s no longer on the right side of the couch, but the left.
It’s so jarring, my feet stutter to a stop.
My gaze swings back and forth between the couch and the chair, a matching set I bought last year in an attempt to brighten up the living room.
For a moment, my mind resists what I’m seeing .
I sit on that couch every evening. I glance over at the pale-gray chair all the time. I stop to fluff the pillow and rearrange the rose-hued throw draped across the back at least every few days or so. So I couldn’t forget where the chair usually sits.
To the right side. Where there’s now an empty space.
But it can’t be. Furniture doesn’t just get up and move by itself.
Am I losing my mind?
My heart skittering like a panicked rabbit, I spin around in a circle, scanning the room.
Rationalizations fly through my head. I’m just tired. Somehow I moved the chair and forgot about it. Nora is playing a joke on me.
Except I know none of those are true.
And then I see the next thing, and my heart lurches into my throat.
The photo on the wall, the one of me and my mom, is still in the same spot, but now it’s flipped upside down.
My breath seizes.
On the second inspection of the living room, I spot something else.
All the books on my shelves are rearranged. Instead of by genre—horror at one end, romance the other, now all the books are sorted by color.
What?
Could Thea be behind this? She’s a librarian, so maybe she thought moving around my books would be amusing?
But I’m dismissing that idea as quickly as I came up with it. Thea is nice and smart and funny, but the odds of her breaking into my house to move my books around are practically zero .
As I’m staring at the bookshelves in confusion, another difference jumps out at me.
The throw rug in front of the fireplace is gone.
Shock loosens my muscles, and my shopping bags fall heavily to the ground.
My already-skipping heart rockets to triple speed.
This can’t be right.
Cold all over, I inspect the living room again, this time searching for hidden cameras. Maybe a tiny blinking red light by the ceiling, or the flash of a glass lens tucked into the Christmas cactus over by the window.
But there’s nothing.
I’m frozen in indecision—half of me wanting to race from the house right away, the other desperate to know. Is it just in the living room? What about the kitchen? My bedroom ?
The fight or flight instinct kicks in and I’m already retreating towards the door when a chilling thought hits me.
Will they even believe me? After the other times I called and was summarily dismissed, will this just be brushed aside as another call for attention?
I need to know more.
So I rush to the kitchen doorway and peer inside.
Like the living room, it’s mostly the same. But the microwave is over by the fridge instead of the oven. The bowl of fruit on the center island is gone.
Air is coming in wheezing gasps as I race to the bedroom. A logical voice in my head says it’s not smart, there could be someone inside, I should run to get help. But it’s like I’m powerless to do anything but move on instinct .
When I reach the bedroom doorway, my first feeling is one of relief. There’s nothing missing. No upside-down photos. None of the furniture has been rearranged.
It’s a small comfort, but to know that at least my bedroom is?—
My heart stops.
The comforter.
The double-sided comforter I bought during the Black Friday sales last year.
I had it set to display the dark blue side, patterned with tiny springs of delicate flowers. But now it’s showing the cream side with narrow, blue chevron stripes instead.
My legs turn to jelly, and I have to grab the door jamb to keep from collapsing.
I didn’t do that. I know I didn’t.
The reality of the situation finally slams home.
Someone has been in my house.
It’s enough to get me moving again, this time back down the hallway and into the living room. The room that only minutes ago felt warm and comforting has a dark and menacing air to it.
Someone was in my house.
What if they’re still here?
On unsteady feet, I race across the room, smashing my shin on the coffee table and nearly pitching myself over it. The fear I felt from the incidents before is nothing compared to now; seeing irrefutable proof that someone was in my house. That someone really is messing with me.
Or are they doing more than that?
As I burst out the front door, I step onto a slick corner of the porch and skid across it, absently thinking, maybe sweeping the snow isn’t a bad idea after all .
But I manage to keep my balance, windmilling my arms until I get traction again.
Then I stumble down the front steps and lunge at my car, slamming the door and locking it behind me.
My heartbeat is an engine rushing in my head, drowning out everything. Gray dots dance at the edge of my vision as my lungs strain for air.
When I reach for my phone—thank goodness I still have my purse—it takes me several tries to grab it because my hand is shaking so badly.
My head is on a swivel, jumping from the front door to the street to my yard, frantically searching for any sign of danger. A man coming from my house, intent on attacking me. Or maybe someone lurking in the bushes, about to make a run for my car, maybe try to hijack me like what happened to Thea…
With trembling fingers, I dial 911. The second the dispatcher answers, I blurt out, “I need to report a burglary. At 121 Lark Street. Someone has definitely been in my house. I—” My voice cracks. “Could you please send someone here. I don’t know if?—”
“Name, please,” the female dispatcher clips.
Like being dunked in freezing water, my body goes cold.
I recognize that voice. Daria Daniels. Another person I went to high school with. And another person who most definitely hasn’t forgiven me.
“It’s Jessica Day,” I reply. “Can you please send someone?”
“Jess.” I’m met with a sigh similar to the one I got from Marilyn.
“What did I tell you about 911 calls? They’re for emergencies only.
Not alleged footsteps in your backyard or a dead possum on your back porch.
Which, by the way, is a perfectly normal thing.
Possums eat garbage. It probably got something out of the trash it wasn’t supposed to. ”
She pauses. “Unless… you poisoned the possum. Trying to get attention again?—”
“I wasn’t!” My voice rises to a near-shout. “I didn’t hurt the possum. Those weren’t my footsteps. And someone was inside my house. They moved things around! I’m not joking—” Another crack.
Then a deep breath, as I pull myself together. More steadily, I add, “You’re the 911 dispatcher, Daria. Just send the police here.”
As I wait for her response, I check the locks in the car again. And the windows. As almost an afterthought, I push the ignition and rest my hand on the shifter, ready to pull out if I need to.
Finally, after what seems like an hour, Daria huffs loudly across the line. “Everyone is busy on calls right now, Jessica. Actual emergencies. If you want to come to the station, you can file a report here.”
I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting it.
But it still hurts. And her response makes me feel more alone than ever.
“Well?” she continues in an impatient tone. “Are you coming into the station? Or have you changed your mind about the… alleged crime?”
Swallowing hard to hold back the threatening tears, it takes me a few seconds before I can talk without crying. “I’ll come into the station.”
Then I click off the call and toss my phone into the middle console.
The lump in my throat gets bigger .
As I shift into reverse and pull slowly out of the driveway, the first of the tears escapes.
It’s hot on my chilled cheek. Almost burning.
My chest feels carved out. Aching.
I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. But just for once, I wish someone would trust me.