Chapter 12
REED
Darkness is a fist around my throat.
The only light in the home gym is the far-reaching beams of the big moon hanging out over the mountains. Wolves howl in the near distance. My skin prickles with deep uncertainty.
“Did you do that?” I ask, phone still glued to my hot, sticky ear.
I brandish the hammer, scared that someone is going to emerge from the shadows to take me down. There’s no breathing or laughing on the other end of the line. He hung up on me this time.
“Bastard,” I crow, fighting off panic.
Should I call him back?
No, that would be foolish. I can’t let him know he’s rattled me more than he already has. He’s clearly sick and thrives on my fear.
You know what else thrives on my fear? My unruly hormones, apparently.
The threat of home invasion looms, and my dick expands more by the second in my briefs.
Most people have fight-or-flight instincts.
Mine seem to be fight, flight, or fuck, and the first and last are the ones winning out right now.
I really should go find a pair of shorts to cover up.
And maybe a therapist to sort this all out with.
Click. Creak. Sta-stomp.
The sounds come unmistakably from the upstairs doorway. I strain to hear what must be two boots scraping against the welcome mat. Revving up for a chase?
The unknown caller is inside.
I clasp a hand over my mouth in shock. Spit balls up in the back of my throat, blocking my airway. I didn’t hear the door burst down or the glass of a window shatter. He must’ve picked the lock.
I track footsteps over my head in the upstairs entryway until a loud drone sound fills the house. The lights snap back on. The HVAC system kicks in again. A shrill beep-beep-ba-beep spears through every room of the house.
He must’ve tripped the security system. Thank god. Somebody is going to be alerted to my predicament without me having to call the police.
My relief is short-lived. The sound snuffs out in seconds. Almost as if I’d imagined it in the first place.
He not only knows how to get in, but he also knows the code to the security system.
In my frazzled state, I race to shut off every light I come upon. I have to hide, and I have to hide now if I have any chance of making it out of this.
If I can find a secure spot, I’ll call Erin exactly like she told me to.
I’ll play by the rules, and I won’t get hurt.
I’m barefoot, so my steps are soft and ignorable in the myriad of sounds ringing out—clocks chiming, devices waking back up.
I get as far away from the stairs as I can.
I peer into every open door I pass. My ears stay alert for more movement above me.
Beyond the sound of my heartbeat, which pounds like an attention-seeking sycophant, I don’t hear anything. Upstairs is eerily still.
I slip into the farthest guest bedroom, where a large wooden dresser is far enough away from the corner of the rear wall.
If I crouch and squeeze, I can slither into its shadow.
From there, I have a clear path to the sliding glass door out onto the deck if I need to make a break for it.
I’d run now, but it will only trigger the alarm, alerting the intruder to my whereabouts.
I can’t make a scene until somebody knows I’m in trouble.
Until help might actually be on its way.
I dial Erin, and the noxious ringing is interminable. My patience is single-ply toilet paper, tearing with each millisecond.
“This is the inbox of Erin Pond. I am unable to receive your call at this time—”
Frustration flashes through my fingertips.
I hang up and try again.
“This is the inbox of—”
My heart sucker punches my ribcage.
Third time better be the damn charm.
“This is the—”
I don’t leave a voicemail because I worry my words may carry.
Hoping this is a mobile line, I shoot off a text.
Emergency at the house. Break-in. What should I do?
The progress bar to send the message stalls out around three-fourths of the way to completion. I delete the text and try again. Same result. I shake my phone as if that’s going to fix this.
The unknown caller clomps above me. The footsteps gunk up my thoughts until I’m a jumble of indecision.
I hold my phone with one hand and the hammer in the other.
Neither is going to be particularly useful, is it?
The unknown caller could have a knife, a taser, a gun.
He could be out for money, blood, my body.
Whatever he wants, I can’t just give it to him. I won’t be a coward.
A gust of air whistles into the room. In the dim light, I don’t spot a vent nearby.
Then I remember that I used the adjoining bathroom to shower earlier.
The fan wasn’t dissipating the steam fast enough, causing me to sweat, so I opened the window in the shower.
The security system wouldn’t have caught that because it was already unlatched, so the sensor is likely deactivated despite the intruder resetting the system.
Testing my luck, I scurry into the bathroom.
To my dismay, there are restrictors on the window.
The pane won’t push out more than four or five inches.
I’m too bulky to even attempt to shimmy out, and breaking the glass would be like ringing a cowbell for the intruder to come and clobber me.
I wish it weren’t open season on Reed Thompson tonight.
Struggling, I stretch my arm into the gap between the sill and the glass.
It’s a pinch. I reopen my messaging app and attempt to resend the message to Erin.
The bar still won’t go beyond three-fourths.
I contort myself more, searching for a signal, but my bicep flexes in this position, prohibiting me from reaching farther.
Of course my proudest feature might be the reason I get killed. Irony is such a jerk.
A crash upstairs startles me enough that I jump. My slick fingers snap open, and my phone clatters to the deck below with a horrible clang. Through the glass, I see that the message was never sent, and I’m almost certain my phone screen is now broken.
My brain is a clusterfuck of curse words. I free my arm and try to think.
A ringing that sounds like an old landline phone comes from the bedroom.
It stops and starts a few times. Relentless in its high-pitched wailing.
The small square tablet on the wall by the door to the hallway says Primary bedroom calling whole house. I knew these devices controlled the lights, the temperature, and the outdoor spa, but I didn’t know they were intercoms too.
A green button reads ACCEPT and a red button reads DECLINE.
If I accept, he’ll know where I am in the house.
If I decline, I’ll piss him off more than I already have.
Maybe if I accept, I can reason with him. Plea. Barter. Whatever I need to survive the night.
Steeling my nerves, I hit accept.
A second selection pops up—video or audio only?
I don’t want him to see how shaken I am. I’ve never been one to school my features, so I tap audio only.
The unknown caller appears on camera. His ski mask-clad head fills the screen.
All I can see are his shadowy eyes and the outline of his pink mouth.
Above his lips, he’s customized his standard-order burglar costume.
I’d almost mistake the ornamentation for a white, embroidered mustache, but when I get closer and squint, I make out the words: EAT THE RICH stitched in neat, blocky capital letters.
How creative.
Still, that’s enough proof that this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Wendell Blitz.
I’ve got nothing this man could want. When you open my wallet, moths fly out.
I don’t even have a credit card that’s not maxed out between rent, utilities, groceries, and the rideshare I took to get here.
If he wants to play cannibal with the one percent, I shouldn’t be on the menu.
When the unknown caller backs up, he reveals a muscular build bulging against head-to-toe black.
Black athletic turtleneck, black gloves, tight black pants, and black chunky boots.
A black backpack partially unzipped leans against the base of the bed I slept in last night, which I left unmade.
The sheets are still curled at the foot of the mattress.
I wish I were in that bed right now, tucked under the covers, and this was all some perverse nightmare.
I finally have eyes on my threat. And it’s a pretty big threat. One that I’m not sure I’m equipped to take down on my own.
“Took you long enough, pretty boy,” the unknown caller says. He unfurls his hand and twirls something around his gloved finger. I get flashes of dark-blue fabric. At first, I assume it’s some kind of chloroform rag, then I realize it’s a pair of my worn briefs.
Maybe this does have something to do with me.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Aren’t you getting tired of asking that?
” he asks. The fabric around his mouth quirks up.
A flash of white teeth that make up a sickening smile.
His canines glint in the overhead light, appearing sharper than most I’ve seen.
This doesn’t look like the kind of man I could reason with.
This looks like the kind of man who’d happily roast me over an open flame and pick his teeth with my bones when he’s finished.
“Aren’t you scared that the police are on their way?” I ask. Even I can tell there’s not enough umph behind my words. My mind snaps to my phone, broken and useless, out on the deck. I’m as alone in this as possible.
He squints, and I swear, even on the small screen and behind the mask, I recognize that skeptical expression, though I can’t tell from where.
“Cute, but this ain’t my first rodeo. The system has a forty-five-second grace period, sweetheart.
I disarmed it in thirty-two. Check my math if you want, but nobody is on their way to help you. ”
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say, disturbed. My hand holding the hammer is starting to cramp from gripping it so tightly. I doubt it’ll even do me any good.