Chapter 11
Emma jerked awake and lay unmoving in the pitch dark.
She’d decided to sleep on the sofa, which was in the warmest room of the house due to the woodstove.
But she could tell the fire was out because now there was a chill in the air.
She looked toward the window, trying to guess the time.
Then she heard scratching near the front door.
That’s what woke me.
Then came the howl.
She lurched upright, holding the blanket against her chest. The sound came again, low and angry.
Cornbread.
Emma lurched to her feet and stumbled to the front door, where the sound seemed to come from. The cat sounded as if he was dying. The sound morphed into a pleading cry, making her heart break.
Is he hurt? Did something attack him?
She pressed her nose against the window, trying to see the cat and what had attacked it in the dark. A bobcat or even a black bear could be on the porch. Instead, she saw Cornbread dart down the stairs and dash into the woods, a faint ghost moving at ground level. Nothing followed him.
He’s not running like he’s hurt.
She shifted her view to check the rest of the porch but didn’t see any predators.
The chickens were silent, not throwing fits like when a fox or worse was near.
Emma strained her eyes trying to see where Cornbread had vanished into the woods.
Her heart pounded, his cries still reverberating in her head.
“He must be okay,” she muttered. “I doubt—”
She froze and then slowly sank until she could just see over the windowsill.
A light had moved in the woods. And then cut out.
Her gaze fixed on the location, and her heartbeat continued to speed. She waited.
I’m seeing things. I was staring too hard to spot Cornbread.
The light appeared again, and she stopped breathing. It was faint with an almost pinkish-peach tone.
As if someone has their fingers over the lens of a flashlight.
Confirming her suspicions, the light became clear and then abruptly went pink again. And it moved, bobbing as if someone was walking.
Walking toward the house.
Shit! Move!
She grabbed her blanket and pillow from the sofa and thrust them over the back, not wanting anyone to see the couch had been slept on. She touched the top of the woodstove; it was warm. The house was cold, but anyone who touched the stove would know it’d been used recently.
There was nothing she could do about it now.
If they came in the house and checked her bed or her dad’s, they would feel cold. And maybe they’d believe no one had been home.
Emma thrust her feet in her boots and grabbed a heavy coat and knit cap. She’d slept in her clothes as usual. A habit from always being cold. She spun in the dark, wondering what else she should grab. The gun.
Darting back to the kitchen, she took the gun out of the drawer and shoved it into her raggedy backpack along with her cell phone.
She silently tore down the hall into her father’s bedroom and dropped to her knees by his bed, shoving her hands between the mattress and box spring until she felt the plastic bag.
She tucked the bag of cash into her backpack next to the gun and crawled to the window on her hands and knees.
She silently slid open the window a little and listened, her ears straining for sounds in the night.
There was no back door in the old mobile home. Her father had always said it was a death trap in case of fire, and so, when she was six, he’d shown Emma how to get out through her bedroom window in case of an emergency.
A kick to the screen.
Then a drop to the dirt.
She’d landed on her knees the first time she’d tried it, which had made her cry. He’d made her do it two more times.
But this time she was at her father’s window at the front of the house, his screen long gone.
A better place to spy and listen. She peeked over the windowsill.
The dim light had moved closer, and she swore she saw two figures.
She questioned her decision to not automatically go out her own window at the back of the house.
But if someone circled the house, they’d see she’d had to leave the screen on the ground.
Besides, this would be the fastest route to the woods.
She was counting on them coming to the front door. This window was the best place to keep tabs on where they went. If they came in, she’d go out her father’s window and get to the trees.
“. . . bike’s not here.” A male whisper.
“Check around back for it.” Second male whisper.
They want to steal my bike?
Emma closed her eyes and listened hard, thankful she’d not gone out her bedroom window.
Soft crunching told her someone was right outside the window, heading around the house.
A muffled sigh from the direction of the porch indicated the second person was waiting.
She realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to breathe in and out.
I’m so loud.
Jogging footsteps came back around to the front of the home. “No bike. Think she’s here?”
“Gotta check.”
“What do we do with the girl?”
“What I already told you. We need her.”
Emma held her breath.
Need me for what?
The freshly repaired board on the steps gave a loud creak and then, a second later, creaked again.
They’re coming in.
She slowly slid her father’s window fully open, praying it didn’t make a sound, her ears still trained on the front porch.
“Where’s the key?”
“Here.”
Something rustled like dried leaves.
They knew the key was tucked in the door’s wreath.
They’ve been here before. Or someone told them.
She heard the characteristic squeak of the opening door and mentally counted to five, allowing time for both men to move into the house.
The door squeaked again as it closed, and she stuck her head out the window to check the porch.
Empty. She lifted her backpack out and dropped it as silently as she could and then climbed out, lowering herself to the dirt.
She slid the window closed, grabbed her pack, and ran for the woods.