Chapter 2 Lily
LILY
Today I learned what it’s like to stumble into an ongoing home invasion. Oh, and how it feels when a bullet lands in someone’s head, only inches away from mine. Two new weekend experiences I could have gladly lived without.
Sweat runs down my temple, causing a sharp sting when it reaches my left eye. I tighten my hold on the steering wheel as I try to blink it away. It doesn’t work, only makes everything appear blurry, and when my car ventures into the other lane, I slow down to press my palm against my eye socket.
Great.
A trip to the mechanic is exactly what our sinkhole of a budget needs right now.
Brady has been on edge lately, so I guess I’ll buy a portable fan instead of starting yet another discussion about how my car is a money pit.
“My” car, which is a hand-me-down from one of Brady’s coworkers, a gift I had to unwillingly accept after my husband got tired of driving me around.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me leaving work early was a mistake.
It’s the last week before summer break, and until an hour ago, I thought I would join my class on their trip to the museum.
Once all my kids had boarded the bus, Principal Doyle pulled me aside to tell me enough parents volunteered to watch the kids.
If she had told me sooner, I could have fit in one or two tutoring hours. Admittedly, I’m questioning if the hassle is even worth it. No matter how much extra money I make, our bank account stays in the red, and our financial situation isn’t the only thing going south.
Since we moved here, over a year ago, it’s like I’m trying to fill a leaking bucket. I see the gaping hole, hear the water constantly running out. Nevertheless, there is this part of me that is convinced I could replenish the bucket if I just try a little harder.
While I wait for the driver in front of me to find their gas pedal after missing an entire green phase, I glance over at the bouquet of peonies on my passenger seat.
It’s a good Friday, I tell myself.
I even got my non-negotiable Friday-flowers with a twenty percent discount. Not even fifty percent off would keep Brady from calling me wasteful for spending money on something that’s already dead, though.
As I turn onto our street, my brows furrow in confusion upon seeing Brady’s car in the driveway. He’s supposed to be at work, and if there is one thing my husband doesn’t do, it’s coming home early. I’ve grown used to the sound of the microwave when I’m already in bed.
Our driveway only fits one car, so I park mine further down the road and grab my bag and my flowers, struggling to lock the car with full hands. The power locks stopped working months ago.
With quick steps, I make my way over to our house, eyeing Brady’s car and running through the possible reasons he could be home. He seemed fine last night. Stressed, but that’s nothing new, so I guess he just called in sick to have a bit of time for himself.
I sling my bag over my shoulder so that I can empty our mailbox, and my gaze falls onto Mr. Randolph’s house across from ours.
While he was an exceptionally sweet neighbor, I’m still glad he moved into a retirement home a few weeks ago.
Countless times, I had to lead him back home in the middle of the night because he was wandering around outside, not knowing where he was.
A black SUV sits deep in the overgrown garden behind Mr. Randolph’s house. Probably his kids or grandkids who are here to put the house up for sale, because I can’t imagine someone moving here if they had other options.
With a hiss, I pull my hand back when I accidentally touch the burning hot door knob while trying to fit my key into the lock.
Inside the house it is dark and quiet, and the temperature doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking on the surface of the sun.
I let out a sigh as I close the door behind me.
Silently, as not to wake Brady who really seems to have stayed home.
After putting my bag down, I want to turn around—but someone stops me.
A calloused hand covers my mouth, reeking of day old smoke and something metallic. I’m pushed toward the living room, and upon seeing Brady, the rest of my belongings slip out of my hands.
He’s still in the shorts he wears to sleep, tension belts keeping him tied to a chair.
His upper body is slumped forward, blood dripping from his nose and mouth onto the carpet.
Two men I’ve never seen before turn in my direction and my first instinct is to run.
Not that I could, because the most miniscule movement is enough for the man holding me to tighten his grip.
“Brady, Brady…,” one of them muses, coming closer. “How did a gutter rat like you land such a beauty?”
He brushes a loose strand of hair out of my face with the muzzle of his gun, laughing dryly when I flinch.
The hand over my mouth vanishes, but it’s replaced by a blood-smeared one grabbing my cheeks.
The man turns my face, like he’s examining an item before buying it, nodding in approval once he’s satisfied.
“Deal’s on the table again. Boss has a thing for girls who look all prim and innocent.”
In search of safety, or at least an explanation, I look over at my husband. My great husband who’s deliberately turning his head the other way. The gray-haired man in front of me tells the one holding me to move, and a second later, I’m dragged to the back of the room.
“Break is over.” Their presumed leader saunters back to Brady, twisting the gun in his hand before he tucks it away in the back of his pants.
His fist collides with Brady’s face, making him spit out a glob of blood. Not the first one, judging by the state of his face and the surrounding floor.
“J, c’mon, there must be another way to handle this,” Brady groans, and I’m raising my eyebrows at the realization that they know each other. “Let me go and you have your payment in the next ten minutes.”
Let me go.
It doesn’t come as a surprise, and still, his words burn like alcohol on a fresh cut.
Maybe it’s the panic, I reason with myself, knowing damn well that this man would never put me first.
At least not anymore.
I wince, my body registering the gunshots before my brain can even catch on. Glass shatters and a second bang amplifies the ringing in my ears. Air is forcefully pushed out of my lungs as the man who had been holding me collapses and his heavy body lands on top of mine.
All hell breaks loose in the living room, a cacophony of screams completing this traumatizing moment while warm liquid trickles down the back of my shirt. Rivulets of the stranger’s blood form a puddle on the cheap flooring beneath me, and I focus on the way it grows with every drip.
Now would be a good time to run, but I’m frozen in place.
What if the bullet hit me and not him?
What if I’m already dead and it’s just my conscience that is stuck here in this nightmare?
Someone kicks over the chair Brady is tied to. He squeezes his eyes shut as his body lands on the carpeted floor with a thud, probably because he knows he’s looking my way.
I crane my head to see more of the hallway, just in time to witness the front door being kicked in. Sunlight floods the hallway, so harsh on my eyes that I can barely make out the silhouettes of the men entering our house.
All I wanted to do was enjoy my weekend, but for whatever reason, I ended up in the live-action version of an ego shooter.
There is no other explanation, because whoever these men are, they are not police officers.
They also don’t seem to be backup for the three guys currently hiding in my living room.
Two of them crouch down behind the couch with their weapons drawn while their leader stands behind the wall opening up to the hallway. He’s the first to go down. Well, the second, since victim number one is slowly but surely suffocating me.
As the new intruders move deeper into the house, one of them steps on my flowers and his dirty combat boots smear the ripped-off petals across the floorboards.
I flinch as gunshots go off and the two remaining men find the same fate as their friends. Worn down leather is pressed against my cheek and tears cloud my vision as I’m forced to lift my head.
“You weren’t supposed to be here.”
A rifle is pointed right at my face, so I look back down at the shoes of the man in front of me.
At least I found the one who ruined my flowers before I die.
He lifts his foot and I wonder who I wronged in my past life for getting crushed to death instead of receiving a comparatively merciful bullet like the others.
His boot doesn’t come down on my head, though. Instead, he kicks the corpse off of me, allowing me to scoot back until my back is pressed against the wall.
Piercing blue eyes stare into mine, as if he’s just searching for a good excuse to end my life.
“Is that how we treat witnesses, Cabrera?”
The fresh voice belongs to someone outside of my field of vision, but I don’t dare to move my head even an inch. What I do see are two other men who untie Brady before dragging him out of the house.
“Not a witness; a fucking problem.”
He stalks over to me, grabs my arm, and yanks me up. More hair comes loose from my ponytail. It obstructs my sight, and for whatever reason, this is when my fight-or-flight instinct finally takes over.
I kick and thrash in his hold while he tries to maneuver me out of the house, the simple mention of the word witness somehow enough for my subconsciousness to assume they won’t kill me if I fight back.
I mean, who kills a witness?
Right?
I’m close to accepting my fate when I actually land a blow. My elbow connects with something and the man turns both of us around, shoving me toward another guy with an annoyed grunt.
He’s holding me in the weirdest, most fear-inducing hug I’ve experienced in my life—so far—and mumbles to himself when a sharp pain shoots through my thigh. It burns, and the realization that I was just injected with God knows what doesn’t help either.
The scary hug turns into a warm blanket moments later, right when my eyelids begin to feel heavy.
There’s a big hand holding the back of my head, another one stabilizing my body.
The men are talking, but it’s like trying to eavesdrop through layers and layers of thick wool.
I can decipher a single sentence, and that one is unsettling enough to start one last, fruitless attempt to free myself.
“She’s even prettier up close.”