Chapter One #2
I turned on the balls of my feet, phone still clutched in my hand, ready to write the whole thing off as a delusion. An overreaction.
Just two more rooms to check, and I could assure myself that I might be crazy, but at least Adam and I were alone.
I'd barely turned when a sharp crack filled the hall. Something metal clattered. Rolled.
The mudroom. It had to be. The only things down that hall were the family room, the mudroom, and beyond that, the garage.
And the back door.
When Trey died, I'd sold his guns. I didn't like them in the house with a little boy. Adam was already climbing like the monkey he loved so much, and there was nowhere I could hide the guns that he wouldn't find.
Trey had never wanted a gun safe, saying what was the point of having weapons if you have to work that hard to get to them?
I wasn't a great shot. I hadn't enjoyed target practice like he did, but in that moment, I would have given anything for the weight of his Glock 9mm in my hand. For anything other than my phone.
I looked over my shoulder at the kitchen. I didn't have a gun, but I had an exceptional collection of knives. I love to cook, and my knives are my indulgence. Japanese, handmade of layered steel, they were as much works of art as tools. And each one was wickedly sharp.
Moving on the balls of my feet, I ran to the kitchen and slid open the knife drawer, pulling free my longest, sharpest blade.
The handle fit my palm as if it had been made for me.
I could debone a chicken like nobody's business, but I'd never thought about using the knife on a person. I didn't know if I could.
Adam slept upstairs. If Adam was at stake, I could do anything. I would do anything. But I didn't want to.
I'd raced to the kitchen. My progress toward the mudroom was a lot slower. I clutched my phone in my hand, thinking it might be worth Dave's patronizing reassurance to avoid facing whatever made that noise in the mudroom. Except…
Except the last time I'd called he’d put his hand on my shoulder, his eyes gentle and worried, and said that maybe the strain of taking care of Adam by myself was too much. Maybe I needed a break.
He hadn't said he was going to call social services. He hadn't said he planned to tell them Adam's mother was crazy and delusional. He hadn't had to.
I wasn't calling Dave unless I was sure I had no other choice.
The light in the hall should have been reassuring. It wasn't.
The family room was empty. Warm, heavy air wafted down the hall, out of place in the sterile, air-conditioned house. My fingers tightened on the handle of the knife as I reached through the door of the mudroom and pushed up the light switch with the side of my wrist.
The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling seared my eyeballs.
I blinked hard, the scene in front of me slowly coming into focus.
The back door gaped open, the woods beyond the house black.
Impenetrable. I couldn't see anything moving, but it was so dark beneath the trees someone could be lurking right outside the door, and I wouldn’t know until he was on top of me.
The tall, metal umbrella stand by the back door was on its side, umbrellas spilling out across the tile. The crash I heard. Someone leaving?
I wanted to believe it was someone leaving.
The alternative, that someone was inside the house, was too frightening to contemplate.
My brain was stuck in a loop.
Pick up the umbrella stand.
Close the door.
Pick up the umbrella stand.
Close the door.
I did.
The flick of the lock, the bolt sliding into place, should have made me feel safe. It didn't.
The alarm was off. The door was open. Someone had been in my house.
I could have imagined the sound, the shuffle, and the thump, but I did not imagine the alarm being off. I did not imagine the door hanging open and the umbrella stand knocked over.
I stood there, staring at the locked door, trying to think. I should have taken a picture. I should have called Dave while the umbrella stand was still knocked over and the door was still open. If I called him now, with no proof, he wouldn't believe me.
But if someone had been here, I didn't want to leave the door open. I wanted it locked. I didn't know what to do. I gripped the knife and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trapped by indecision.
Why would someone break into my house?
A thief could have made off with a fortune in artwork from the first floor alone. I hadn't noticed anything missing as I passed through the house.
At a loss for what else to do, I left the mudroom and went back through the first floor. Nothing was missing. Nothing I could see. Why would someone break in if not to steal?
I thought of Adam asleep in his bed, so small. So vulnerable. I had to protect him. I had an alarm and the best locks money could buy. Still, we weren't safe.
We should have been safe.
I'd locked the mudroom door, but I didn't know—
Had I locked someone out? Or locked them in?
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, scanning the quiet, brightly-lit house.
What do I do? What the hell was I supposed to do?
And then I remembered. Not long before he died, Trey started talking about a new security system. I'd brushed him off, hadn't really paid attention. The system we had was overkill for a small town in Maine, even considering the artwork Trey had collected.
He'd been restless and anxious those last few months. Promising me everything was fine, then talking about buying more guns and getting a better alarm. He'd been short-tempered and easily irritated. Annoyed when I asked questions, so I'd stopped.
He'd said once that if anything happened, if I needed help and he wasn't there, I should call someone. He had a card. I couldn't remember the name, but there had been a lion's head and a circle. Black on white.
Still clutching the knife in one hand and my phone in the other, I walked past the front door and down the other hall to Trey's office. I rarely went in there. Not before he died and not after. This was his space, his room.
His desk was as neat as he'd left it. Everything lined up. Everything in its place. No business cards.
I should have paid attention. I should have listened, but he'd been so erratic back then.
I got used to tuning him out when he went off on a paranoid rant about guns or a new alarm.
About people coming after him. If he'd been afraid for Adam, I would have taken him seriously, but it was always about him. Never us.
The top drawer slid open silently, the contents as neatly arranged as the surface of the desk. Pens lined up together, paperclips organized by size, and, in the corner, a neat stack of business cards.
Reluctantly, I peeled my sweaty fingers from the handle of the knife and set it on the desk. The blade gleamed obscenely against the warm mahogany. The first card in the pile was his stockbroker. The second for a local maid service. The third for the Black Rock newspaper.
Below that, a white card with black printing.
A lion's head surrounded by a circular banner that read ‘Sinclair Security’.
The name underneath was Maxwell Sinclair.
Two phone numbers, one toll-free and the other an area code I didn't recognize.
The address beneath; Atlanta, Georgia. Why would Trey have worked with a company all the way in Atlanta?
It was the middle of the night. No one would be in the office. Before I could think better of it, I dialed the toll-free number and waited.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. A click, as if the call were being transferred. It rang again, and a woman's voice informed me that I had reached Sinclair Security after office hours but was welcome to leave a message.
A long beep sounded in my ear and I began to babble.
“This is Lily Spencer. I—my husband—my former husband—I'm a widow—uh, told me to call you if there was ever any trouble.
I live—we live—I live up in Maine, and we've had some break-ins. Uh, I think. The police haven’t found anything, but tonight someone got in.
Turned off the alarm. I don't know what to do.
I don't know if you can help, but he said if anything ever happened, I should call you, so I'm calling.
Please, if you could call me back, I'd appreciate it. Again, this is Lily Spencer.”
I left my number, then stabbed my finger at the screen of my phone and hung up. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment no one could see. I should have planned what I was going to say, should have thought about it, but I was rattled.
Not rattled.
I was scared.
I left the card face up on the blotter and picked up the knife. I thought about making a cup of tea. Turning on the television for company. Of walking through the house again.
I did none of it. I went to the stairs and climbed to the second level, checking every room I passed. I stopped in front of Adam's door and turned the knob, breath held, praying with everything inside me that he was as I'd left him. Safely asleep.
He'd rolled over, pushing his pillow to the floor, stuffed monkey under his head. He was still out cold, cheeks flushed with sleep, his back rising and falling in a regular rhythm.
My sweet boy. If he was okay, I was okay.
I shut the door, turning the almost useless lock on the handle, and sat on the carpet, leaning against the bed frame, the only sound in the room Adam's even breathing.
Pulling my knees into my chest, I listened for any hint of a disturbance, for any sign that we weren’t alone.
Eyes glued to the door, the knife in my right hand and my phone in my left, I waited for daylight and the false promise of safety.