Chapter Two—Lorna
I’M HALFWAY DOWN THE hall toward the bedroom when the kitchen lights disappear behind me. The overhead fixtures shut off at the same time as the pendants above the island. Darkness fills the hallway, leaving only a narrow strip of city light beneath the bedroom door.
I stop walking. My phone is on the kitchen counter. “Seriously?” I turn back, already annoyed because the smart-home system has glitched twice since the last service visit.
Someone grabs me before I take the second step.
An arm traps my left arm against my side while a gloved hand covers my mouth. Shock freezes me for half a second before instinct takes over. I swing backward with my right elbow and hit a body hard enough to draw a grunt.
The person jerks me off balance, and my bare feet skid across the hardwood.
I bite down. Rubber gives against my teeth. Latex. The hand jerks away from my mouth, and I suck in air. “Get off me!”
I throw my head backward, but whoever has me turns away from the blow. I twist instead, trying to wrench my trapped arm free. My shoulder slams into the wall, and pain shoots down my side.
I scream. The sound barely leaves me before my head catches the corner of the hallway molding, and white bursts across my vision. For a second, my legs stop cooperating. My attacker uses it. An arm comes around my neck from behind while the other catches my wrist.
“No.” It’s more a breath than a word as I claw at the sleeve near my throat.
Heavy fabric with a smooth surface. It’s nothing I can grab.
Pressure closes along both sides of my neck. This isn’t somebody panicking because I fought back. Whoever is holding me knows exactly what they’re doing. Fear tears through me so hard that every thought breaks apart except one.
Fight.
I kick backward and connect with a shin. The person shifts but doesn’t let go.
I kick again, but the arm around my neck presses harder. The strip of light under the bedroom door blurs. Dark spots spread through it. I try to hook my fingers beneath the arm but can’t get enough leverage. My knees fold.
The last thing I register is the hallway floor coming toward me.
When I open my eyes, my left cheek is against the hardwood. I blink several times.
The lights are on.
For a few seconds, none of it fits together. I don’t know why I’m on the floor or why my head hurts so badly.
Then I remember the hand over my mouth and jerk upright. I immediately do a self-assessment and am relieved to find my pants are still on. There’s no pain in my labia, so I wasn’t sexually assaulted.
Yet.
The realization that I don’t know how long I’ve been out or where my attacker is clears my head, and I turn to look around me. The movement sends the hallway sideways, and pain flares in my neck. I catch myself with one hand and stay there until the dizziness eases enough for me to look around.
No one is with me.
The kitchen is lit behind me. The hallway ahead is empty.
“Hello?” My voice sounds wrong in the apartment. I’m raspy, but I don’t think he/she/they choked me long enough to cause physical damage. It’s mostly fear and adrenaline now.
There’s no answer. I listen for movement. A door, footsteps, or anything else alerting me that someone else is in my home. There’s nothing. The space feels unoccupied again, but I can’t trust that. I didn’t sense anyone with me until they grabbed me.
The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. An air vent pushes a faint current across my bare arm. Somewhere far below, a horn sounds from the street. Those are normal noises. My home sounds completely normal after somebody choked me unconscious in it.
My wrists hurt, so I look down. Red marks circle both of them, darker along the inner edges. I turn one arm, then the other. I don’t remember anyone grabbing both wrists. Just the one.
They did more to me after I blacked out.
The idea brings a wave of nausea. I swallow several times and force myself to look at the rest of me instead.
My pajama top is twisted but intact. The drawstring on my pants is tied, confirming my previous internal assessment.
Nothing else immediately looks disturbed.
Relief comes so hard my eyes sting. I sit there another few seconds before using the wall to stand. My legs wobble. “Come on.” I still sound hoarse, but it’s wet now too. I’m on the verge of tears.
I wait, try again, then manage to stay upright. The alarm panel at the far end of the hall glows green.
Armed.
I stare at it. “No.” I set the alarm after dinner. I remember entering the code. I remember hearing the confirmation tone.
No alarm sounded during the attack. The green indicator remains steady.
Armed.
I don’t touch it.
The bedroom door is closed. That bothers me almost as much as the alarm because I left it open. I’m sure I left it open because I’d walked down the hall to get the cardigan I dropped across the end of the bed earlier. I was going to put it away before turning in.
My fingers curl against the wall.
Don’t open it.
The thought comes too late. I need to know if somebody is still inside.
I inch toward the bedroom and push the door with my elbow.
The room is empty. I let out a harsh sob of relief.
The bed is made exactly as I left it after the housekeeper finished this morning. Two white pillows rest against the headboard with the gray pillow in front.
Something is on my pillow. I squint, not understanding at first.
Then I do, and my stomach churns anew.
A white rose lies across the place where I put my head every night. My stomach rolls harder, and breathing is suddenly difficult. “Oh, God.”
I make myself get closer, to take in the details. The stem has been cut short. There’s no ribbon, florist paper, or card. Just the flower.
I grip the doorframe because my legs are unsteady again. This person was in my bedroom. After attacking me, before attacking me, or both. He marked my wrists, did who knows what else, and then violated the space where I sleep.
I let out a wobbly moan when it hits me that they knew which side of the bed was mine. No, he. I’m sure it was a man, though I don’t know anything else about my attacker. I back away.
My phone.
The thought finally breaks through the panic. I make it to the kitchen too quickly, catch the edge of the island when dizziness hits again, then snatch my phone from beside the laptop.
The microwave reads 11:41. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Twenty minutes seems possible. Ten. Thirty. I have nothing to measure it against.
There are no calls from Chris and no messages. If he’s still awake, he’d assume I’m already asleep. On a normal night, I would be.
I call him. My shaking hands make it difficult to press even the one number I’ve favorited as a shortcut. It rings five times before going to voicemail.
“No, no, no.”
I disconnect and call again.
Two rings this time.
“Chris Aldren’s line.”
Every muscle in my body locks when I hear Fenton’s voice.
His voice is slightly rougher than usual, probably because I’ve interrupted his sleep, but the same professional polish is there. “Lorna?”
“I need Chris.”
“He’s sleeping. He has the Highfield team at seven, and I’m screening overnight.”
I stare into the hallway. Somebody may have been standing there less than half an hour ago. “I need you to wake him up.”
“What’s happened?” He sounds pleasant but slightly terse.
I resist the urge to scream at him, but my voice is shaking. “I need my husband.”
He pauses before saying delicately, “If you tell me what’s wrong, I can make sure he has the information before he calls.” Everything he doesn’t say is in his tone. If I don’t explain why I want my husband, he won’t put me through.
It’s infuriating. Anger cuts through the fear so sharply that I straighten. “I was attacked in my home. Wake him up.”
Fenton doesn’t speak for a beat. Then his voice changes, sympathy sliding into place so easily that I doubt its sincerity. “I’m sorry. Are you injured?”
I don’t hold back my anger. “Wake up Chris.”
“Of course.”
“Now, Fenton.”
“I said I would.” The brusqueness beneath the professional tone lasts only a second before he smooths it away. “I’m doing so now.”
I hang up, enraged, scared, and trembling. My hand is shaking badly enough that I almost drop the phone while searching for Willa’s number.
She answers on the second ring. “Lorna?” Her concern is immediate and real, relayed in just one word.
I start to cry. “Somebody was inside the apartment.”
Her tone changes instantly, becoming sharp and focused. “Where are you?”
“Kitchen.” My voice is wobbling.
She doesn’t try to soothe me as she gets a feel for the situation. I appreciate that. “Are you alone?”
“I...I th...think so.”
Her tone lowers slightly. “You think so?”
I look toward the hall. “I checked the bedroom. I haven’t checked anything else.”
“Don’t.” The word is firm. I hear movement on her end. A drawer, maybe. Then a door. “Is the front door locked?” she asks.
“I d...don’t know.”
“Leave it alone. Tell me what happened. Keep talking.”
I tell her about the lights, the hand over my mouth, and my head striking the wall. I wince at remembering the pressure around my neck and waking on the floor. The marks on my wrists. The closed bedroom door.
My voice breaks when I reach the rose, and I stop.
Willa waits.
I cover my mouth for a second to regain control as the tears come faster. “There was a white rose on my pillow.”
She curses softly. “Keep going.” Her certainty helps me continue.
“I didn’t put it there.”
This time, her tone is soothing. “I know.”
The simple answer makes me cry harder.
Willa asks, “What time is it?”
“Eleven forty-eight.”
“Call 9-1-1 as soon as we disconnect. Don’t touch the flower, the panel, any doors, or anything else in the apartment. I’m about twenty minutes away. I’m already in the car.”
I close my eyes as relief fills me. “Thank you.”
When she hangs up, I call 9-1-1. The dispatcher tells me not to search the apartment and asks whether there’s somewhere I can lock myself in.