3. Rosie
Chapter three
Rosie
H e did what I’d been incapable of for days in a matter of minutes, and I couldn’t tell if that made me love him or hate him. That thing I’d heard groaning and banging in the bathroom beyond my hiding spot was gone. My knees ached as I crouched, peering through the slats of the bifold closet doors at the uniformed man. He’d dragged the remains out of the apartment door, only to return a few minutes later. I’d sat there quietly, shaking my head in disbelief as he shoved a massive dresser from the bedroom through the doorway to block the exit. My only exit.
The large man was a different sort of threat. He’d been hard to make out at first with only the light from his gun. As he worked, a flashlight clenched between white teeth, I picked up hints. I watched him when he first entered with my salty, shaking palm pressed to my lips, observing that his camouflage matched head to toe. The pack, boots, and weapon combined with his sure movements lead me to believe he was military. Actual , military. Not one of the wannabe vigilantes dressed up in the pattern using it like a costume to get what they wanted.
I’d been hiding for two days. At first, I chose the closet in case Barrett came looking for me. As the first night fell, and the creature in the bathroom made itself known, the closet became a place I wasn’t brave enough to escape. I’d done more embarrassing things this last month than pee in the corner of an empty closet.
“Just do it,” I mouthed in the darkness, urging myself to reveal my whereabouts.
This man wouldn’t hurt me. Well, I hoped he wouldn't, at least. What other option did I have? Every blink felt like my eyelids were sandbags being dragged over rocky terrain. He moved from what had to be the kitchen to the bathroom. The flashlight he placed on the counter reflected off the mirror, throwing shadows across the bathroom and affording me the best view of him I’d had yet. Stubble covered a square jaw, and by comparing him to the door frame, I knew his height was above average. Water trickled into the sink, making my throat ache. A reminder that the little flask of water I’d crawled in here with was now empty. I did hate him, I decided. If not for his ability to do the thing I wished I could have, then for his proximity to that cool, wet, water. For seeing him pour it out onto a washcloth and drag it across his skin. I’d wring it out above my mouth to save every drop.
This was my chance, I thought, when he came into the bedroom and set his rifle down. He relaxed against the pillows I’d wanted to curl up against for days, and I hated him for that, too. I frowned as his filthy boots grazed the very end of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply from his weight. Barely a whisper had passed my lips in days. Without water, I bet my voice would be a croak. It wasn’t long before his breathing grew deep and even. Yet another thing he could do better than me. It wasn’t quite a snore, but there was a rasp in his chest that spoke to pure exhaustion. Pulling the box of matches from my jeans, I patted the floor of the closet until I found the three-wick candle I’d been lighting when I couldn’t stand the dark any longer. Fire in an enclosed space was dangerous. So was losing your marbles and dying of dehydration. I’d take my chances.
I stood, knees aching after days crouched up in fear, my back brushing along rows of coats and dresses on their plastic hangers. The slatted bifold doors that provided me with a false sense of security stayed silent as I pushed them open. The trio of flames within the smoky glass wavered with each step I took toward the bed. The name tag across his heart read WILDER. Half a bottle of water sat on the cluttered end table next to his flashlight, and I reached for it, quietly lifting it to my lips with urgency.
For the first time, I explored the apartment beyond the confines of the closet. The small bedroom, almost filled by the currently occupied double bed, had one window, a low dresser, and a tiny television perched on a wooden stool. Beyond the doorway, the larger dresser Wilder had moved jutted out into the hall that also housed the entrance to the tiny windowless bathroom. Flickering candlelight reflected eerily off the bathroom mirror, and I moved on quickly in case the light woke the man. The eat-in kitchen was tidy with a round two-seater table below the window covered in a pile of magazines, a piece of folded paper balanced atop them like an a-frame tent. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at the note. Whoever she’d imagined when she wrote it certainly wasn’t me. The kitchen was open to a small living space that looked too small for the overstuffed loveseat that sat close to a low coffee table with baskets stored beneath it.
I found my own bottle of water in the fridge, gulping it down noisily even though I knew I should be quieter. Meeting the man in the other room was inevitable, but it could wait. I’d become very good at waiting.