Chapter 15 Louise
LOUISE
Iwas halfway down the porch, limping from the fall, when the front door creaked open behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t stop. Honestly, at that moment, I didn’t care if the guy shot me. I was furious—at the storm, at myself, at the whole godforsaken night. Let him put me out of my misery.
But the man’s silhouette disappeared back into the house, leaving the door standing open.
Confused, I stopped and stared at the door.
I looked back at the journey ahead of me that could quite possibly end in loss of life. Then I turned back and stared at the open door for a good five seconds, trying to decipher his actions.
Is he inviting me back in? Airing out his house? Warming it, perhaps?
Now I had a choice. Death by blizzard, or death by gunshot?
Gunshot would be quicker.
Decision made, I turned and stepped cautiously back onto the porch. I poked my head into the open doorway like a baby bird peeking out from the nest. Still not a single light on. I didn’t see him, so I stepped inside.
The door creaked as I slowly closed it behind me. The click of the knob turning back into place echoed off the walls. A shadow moved past the kitchen. I kept my light low and peeled open my eyes.
A minute passed.
I wasn’t good with awkward silences, never had been. But the truth was, I didn’t know what to say at that moment.
Ask him if he meant for me to come back inside? Ask his name? Ask if he meant to kill me? Make me his sex slave for the evening? Perhaps put my orgasm donor condom to good use?
“Could you maybe turn on a light?” I asked instead, my voice too small.
A few seconds passed before there was a faint click, followed by a dim light in the kitchen. That was what I was granted—a stove light in a house the size of an airport.
At least I could see his outline again. The Man, as I’d named him, was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, staring directly at me. Watching my every move.
Dear God, please forgive me for my sins . . .
Next to the front door, I dropped my bags with a loud clunk onto the tile. My hammer.
I had a weapon!
I slowly knelt down next to my bags. Keeping my eyes on him, I searched blindly in my purse until my fingertips traced a long metal object.
I had no clue when, why, or how a hammer had ended up in my purse, but I assumed it had nothing to do with maiming another human being at the time. Regardless, I was now no longer helpless, and this gave me just enough confidence to accept my current situation.
Keeping the silhouette in view, I lowered to a seated position on the cold slate floor, next to the front door—the exit. I leaned my back against the wall, the lip of the windowsill poking into my shoulder blades.
The silence between us was suffocating. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, a statue in the shadows, all shoulders and shadow and unsettling calm.
Although I couldn’t see his face, I memorized every line of his body in case I needed to meet with a sketch artist later.
The man was definitely north of six feet tall, and heavy.
Based on the way his broad shoulders slimmed to a V at the waist, I assumed his size was from muscle—and that he was shirtless.
All the easier to hammer him to death.
Seconds became minutes without a single word spoken between us.
He still didn’t move. Simply stood in the shadows, watching me as I huddled next to the exit with my bags at my side.
What did he think I was going to do? He had to realize I had zero options.
Minutes became an hour.
Exhaustion gripped me, but I didn’t dare close my eyes.
My fingers tightened around the hammer.
I leaned my head against the window. Frozen glass against heated skin.
Why is this house so cold?
I pretended to close my eyes while watching him through the slits.
I didn’t know who this man was, where I was, or if I’d even make it through the night. But I knew one thing for certain.
I was totally, completely, one hundred percent unwelcome in this house of ice.