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Fortunately, my condo isn’t too far from the library, so I’m pulling into my driveway in under ten minutes. It’s in a little development just outside town, safe and quiet, with rows of identical buildings in complementary colors. Most of them have TVs flickering behind curtains and I can hear the soft sound of a laugh track seeping through my neighbor’s windows.
I jump out of the car and rush to my front door, not bothering with pulling into the garage. I’ll be inside for five minutes at most, just long enough to open a can of cat food and grab the cookies I made for tonight.
Daisy weaves between my ankles as I head into the kitchen, almost tripping me twice. “Daisy,” I scold lightly, “I’m not going to be able to feed you if I break my leg.”
Her response is to run ahead of me, then stop abruptly inches from my feet, nearly sending me flying.
And I thought the parking lot was dangerous.
But I manage to feed her without any broken bones or serious injury, and she loses complete interest in me once she has her food. So I’m clear to retrieve the plate of chocolate chip cookies I made—Ari is having massive chocolate cravings—and head back to the door.
“Be good,” I call back to Daisy. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
I’m a librarian who lives alone and talks to her cat. Is there any wonder I’m single?
Once I get back in the car, I shoot Ari one last text.
On my way over. I’m bringing you a present. ??
I pull out of my development, turning onto the tree-lined road that will take me to Ari’s house on the outskirts of Sleepy Hollow. Only a few cars pass on the opposite side, their headlights flashing bright in the darkness.
It’s a nice drive, the cool summer breeze coming through the windows, a refreshing change from the oppressive heat of the day. There’s just something about being out at night in the summertime—the soft harmony of bugs and peepers singing, the air warm enough to enjoy without being stifling.
Every winter, while I’m scraping frost and snow off my car, bundled in layers of clothing, I question why I decided to stay in New York instead of moving somewhere warmer. But on these perfect summer evenings, I’m reminded of why.
On summer nights like this, everything just feels better. Peaceful.
Until.
The peace is shattered.
Something hard presses against the back of my head.
It’s small. Round. Cold.
Ice seeps down my spine.
My heart stops.
What is it?
I shift my head and the thing moves along with me.
A tiny whimper of fear creeps up my throat.
My brain knows what it is but won’t accept it.
The thing presses harder, digging into my scalp.
My foot moves off the gas instinctively, and the car slows.
This time when I try to jerk my head away, something snatches at my hair, yanking my head back against the seat.
“Don’t move.” The voice is strange. Garbled. Robotic. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.”
This can’t be happening.
The fear. I can’t breathe from it. Panic slams into me in paralyzing waves.
