Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
My throat aches. Maybe I was screaming in my sleep, but I could swear it’s from where the man in my nightmares squeezed it. It’s irrational. It’s not true.
Right now, my brain doesn’t give a fuck.
“I am safe,” I croak. Someday I will say it enough to believe it.
The morning is the only time that I regret sleeping naked.
My wood-stove can’t keep the morning chill away entirely, so I squeal as I run to my bathroom.
My house is small, only four or five rooms depending on how you want to define it, but I'm proud of what I've done with the place, especially considering so much of the decorating happened after my mugging.
I find the busier I am, the less I think about it, so I try to avoid being idle.
I take on more work than is probably healthy, and when I'm done with that, I come up with projects for myself to kill the time.
I used to read a lot, as evidenced by the heavy-laden bookshelves in my room, but lately it’s a struggle. The words blur together on the page. Or I get angry at the people in the books for having what I've given up—hope.
The work I've put into my house shows, but I'm not sure that my house actually reflects anything about me.
Horizontal subway tiles in my bathroom shine prettily, contrasting nicely with the hexagon tiles on the floor.
Their bright white color does help wake me up in the morning. But that doesn't make it “me.”
My house is so cute. I’m proud of it. But it could be someone else’s house entirely.
“Computer, good morning,” I call to my local corporate spy, aka smart speaker.
“It’s December 6th. The weather today will be overcast with a high of 38 degrees. There are no local alerts.” Lofi music starts playing throughout my house, the kitchen and living room lights brightening. I have them set to ramp up slowly in case the light is bothering me that day.
“Time to fake awake,” I tell myself. My mom always used to say it when we got ready.
I don’t wear as much makeup as she does—or really any, nowadays—unless I’m going to call my parents.
Who am I going to impress? My pale skin looks a little dark beneath my eyes, which is no shock.
I’m not even certain why I maintain my skincare routine anymore, but maybe it’s so I can trick myself into thinking that someday I’ll meet someone…
somehow, in my living room. With a sigh, I hang my head and grab my serums. I may not be worried about “what you can see in my countenance” anymore like when I grew up religious, but some habits die hard.
After taking my morning vitamin cocktail, I pace back into my room to grab my smartwatch. My packages should be arriving today with wrapping supplies, though I realize I didn’t order anything for my own presents. I guess I’ll need to get on that later.
Checking all of my clients’ agendas for the day and ensuring no one needs changes comes first, however. I appreciate my house’s simple layout that allows me to immediately see when I exit my bedroom that I left my laptop unplugged all night on the couch.
The wood-stove glows with the last remnants of the fire.
At some point in the night, Henry abandoned me in favor of the heat, because he’s fast asleep next to it.
It has a functionality where I could convert it to a pellet stove to burn more efficiently, but I really don’t see why with the performance it already has.
Plus, hauling wood is really my only source of exercise other than long rambling walks in my woods with Henry, so it would probably be bad for my health.
One side effect of working from home is that I’ve bought a laptop cord for every room of my house. The poor thing does a lot of work, and the only time it gets to dock is when I work in my office, which is almost never.
Today, it’ll start its day in the kitchen with me while we both try to wake up. Someday I’ll remember I have a programmable coffee machine, but today is not that day. The smell of the coffee as I make a new pot begins the ritual of sensations that wake me up, so maybe I never will.
My nightmare hovers in the back of my mind, a shadow over the start of my day, but sadly, I’m used to it. I’ll be shocked if there ever comes a day when I don’t have a nightmare. Even when I’m not having an active panic attack, my fears are ever-present.
While the coffee percolates, I boot up my computer and look through my clients’ schedules.
Melissa is double booked later, so I send an email to reschedule one.
Elizabeth has two back-to-back, in-person meetings, in locations that the internet tells me are fifteen minutes apart, so I email both meeting organizers for a call-in number and send her a quick message letting her know.
I may not drive anymore… ever, but even I know that’s a stretch for her.
Maybe it’s strange that so much of what I do is managing for other people what I literally cannot do for myself.
Most people hate meetings, but I honestly used to love them.
I still love them, even if they are all now via video chat.
I love seeing people. I’m actually quite social… but I’m also scared.
Someday, though. Someday I’ll go to an in-person meeting again. Hell, maybe someday I’ll go to one of Fae’s book release parties like she always asks me to…
By the time their calendars are sorted, I check mine to ensure I don’t have any client sync meetings. Thankfully, my schedule is free, so I’m able to work on tasks as I please. I migrate to the living room to drink my coffee and get down to brass tacks.
The hours fly by faster than I can track, and it’s around 10 a.m. that an alert on my phone pulls me out of a trip itinerary I was prepping. I blink down at my phone, because even though the number isn’t saved into my phone, it’s a number I know.
It’s mine.
Or at least it’s my old number. Since I ended the service, the person must have somehow gotten my new number to complain about calls they are getting looking for me. I get it, that’s annoying as shit, but you’re gonna have to deal with those bogus extended warranty calls on your own.
I open the message, and it’s nothing like I expect.
(603)555-3327: Why haven’t you put your lights up yet?
I stare at it.
Huh?
The fear takes a minute to kick in. It starts as confusion, because this shouldn’t be possible. Then, the hairs on the back of my neck raise, and the room closes in. I must be super tired today for it to lag, because normally it’s banging down the door of my mind.
This number—my old number—is the one I had before the mugging.
I got a new one when I was trying to fix the identity theft issues. My phone hadn’t been in my bag, but the thief had opened additional phone lines on my credit cards, and I’d needed to cancel them all just to be sure. So this number shouldn’t be active. Or, it should belong to a total stranger.
Don’t get me wrong, New Hampshire is small, especially compared to other places, but it’s not like everyone here actually knows everyone else, especially not those of us that aren’t from around here.
I pull my front curtains closed, something I almost never do during the day because you can’t even see the road from my house, let alone other people.
Is someone watching me? No. It’s got to be a coincidence.
“I am safe. I am in my home. I am safe in my home.”
The first three numbers do correspond to the town of residence, so it’s possible that one of my neighbors got my old number.
That’s got to be it. Maybe they’re trying to talk to someone else in our town and have one of the numbers off.
I’ve fat fingered my fair share of things before.
I’m not one of those people to fuck with wrong numbers or telemarketers, so I’m going to ignore it.
In no universe does my mugger have my number.
The police said it wasn’t possible, I changed it, and they didn’t have access to my service account.
My fingers twitch toward where I have the local police department saved in my contacts, but I stall.
They are so sick of my shit by now… I don’t want them to have to calm me down. Again.
I certainly don’t want to listen to Sergeant Monotone drone on about the statistical unlikelihood of my attacker bothering me ever again, with such quips as, “Opportunists just want to get away from the situation.”
No. I am safe. This is a weird coincidence, that’s all. Whoever has my old number now doesn’t know they’re talking to me. They think they’re talking to someone else. It’s a wrong number.
It has to be.
And if that’s the case—and it is, it has to be—the last thing I need is for some busybody in my town to find my new number so they can add me to bridge club or something. No, I am content to be the hermit lady in the woods, please leave me out of bridge. That’s it. That is what is happening.
Person A is trying to contact Person B and nag them about their lights.
Maybe they are in one of those big communities where they all decorate.
Hell, if I don’t answer, I’m doing Person B a favor!
Person A won’t know they have the wrong number, and I’ll have bought Person B more time to do it when they please!
Before I know it, I’ve built Person A up in my head to be some Karen, head of the HOA (of which there are extremely few here, but let’s ignore that) that corrals their neighbors into adequately performing holiday cheer.
No matter how I try, I can’t seem to believe my own story, so, for the rest of the day, I blame my unease on Person A.
Damn you, Person A, for ruining my day with even more anxiety than I normally experience!