Chapter 2 #2
“Winona?” Sarah’s tinny voice came from the phone as I answered the attachment. “The message also updated the terms. The job says you need to be out of there by noon—I’m guessing when the owner gets home. They also prepaid you.”
Guilt splashed over me. Half of what they were paying me was still too much: from my understanding of the issue, this repair was something I could do with my eyes closed, and I’d likely be in and out a good two hours before their deadline without even rushing.
But who knows—I’d been to more than one ‘simple fix’ type jobs that turned out to be shit-stained disasters.
Literally. Plus, Cher would tell me I was here on their timeline and their offer.
And clearly, this person could afford to flush cash down the toilet, so to speak.
“Okay then,” I said. If he insisted.
Through the massive windows, movement by the pool made me jump. But it was just a leaf fluttering onto the surface of the sparkling water.
I was alone. Except… “Sarah,” I whispered, looking up at the ceiling. “The assistant who booked this job. Her name wasn’t Anita, was it?”
“No. Her name was something with an S. Sal, I think. Why?”
My concern mellowed only slightly as I said, “You ever see the Terminator?”
I let out a breath as I closed the bathroom door behind me.
This too was fancy as hell—all marble with double sinks, separate shower and bath, and a bidet fancier than the toilet.
But a bathroom filled with pipes felt familiar and safe compared to a possibly sentient house.
For the first time since driving up that hill, I felt in control.
Once I got down on my hands and knees, I could see the issue right away.
I’d be back at the Rolling Hills in time for lunch with my crew.
Maybe I’d invite Sarah to join us, and she could tell us more about this mysterious homeowner.
Cassandra’s fiancé, Blake, was some kind of business consultant, I knew.
Was his brother too? If so, this man was making a lot more than Blake, and Blake was no slouch.
Maybe he was something else. A diplomat.
Or a spy. I pictured some James Bond-looking guy dropping the pants of his three-piece suit to settle on the fancy toilet next to me, and that was almost enough to make me laugh at myself.
With the tension largely dissipated, I popped in my headphones and got to work.
Normally, I’d listen to one of my classic lady crooners—I preferred the singer-songwriters from the last century—women my mom introduced me to.
Joni Mitchell. Billie Holiday. Or my beloved Dolly Parton.
But when I hit play on my music app, my ears were filled with the sound of sea shanties.
I grinned. Anyone back home would probably laugh me out of town if they knew I was playing these.
But this music reminded me of the good parts of home.
I could almost smell the salt of the ocean.
See the weathered faces of the fishermen on the boats down at the docks where Mama used to take me on her days off, back when it was just the two of us.
We’d watch those old mariners release their nets, massive fish thudding onto the wet decks.
It took three songs to take things under the sink apart, and I hummed happily through each one, blowing my hair out of my face as I worked.
Then I heard the opening strains of Wellerman.
This one was my favorite. Calvin and I used sing it loud and proud while making dinner, and while Ryan would roll his eyes as he studied at the table, I’d always catch him mouthing along with the words, his sneaker tapping the floor.
I couldn’t hum this one. Nor could I sing it lying down under a sink.
The job was going fast—I’d only been here twenty minutes, and I was almost done.
I’d blame the music, but it was my fingers that cranked the volume loud into my headphones. My hand that gripped my wrench, turning it into a microphone as I belted the haunting lyrics out at the top of my lungs.
I was so ebulliently distracted that it wasn’t until I sang the last line of the song that I opened my eyes and saw I was no longer alone.
I shrieked as fear ripped through me like lightning.
It wasn’t just a person standing in the doorway to the bathroom. It was a monstrous-looking man—over six feet tall at least, with a wild beard and shaggy hair, wearing nothing but a black robe. And his eyes—his eyes. They were as furious as a riled ocean, and deep sea green like it too.
And they were fixed on me.
I yanked out my headphones, another cry chasing my thundering heartbeat up my throat. Sarah told me I wouldn’t be in danger. But of course, she hadn't accounted for break-ins.
The wild man’s voice beat my scream by a millisecond.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
Maybe a normal person would have panicked. But that low, raspy timbre of his voice, the deep anger. The privilege and entitlement of those demanding words—they flipped everything on its head. They wrapped around something deep inside of me, sparking fear into flame.
“Who the fuck am I?” My fingers squeezed so tight around my pipe wrench my knuckles ached. A primal rage had taken over.
Not again, I thought. Never again.
Using all my strength, I hurled the wrench directly at the man’s face.