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“What do we do if that happens?”
“Depends. Maybe we threaten to call the cops,” he says, passing me my purse and my phone. “If you need to take a call while I’m talking to him walk away, out of earshot.”
I put the phone in my pocket. “Sure.”
We get out of the car.
The street is almost eerily quiet.
I can hear sounds in the near distance, but there’s nothing going on right where we are.
No bird song, no mowers mowing, or people talking.
I guess most of the people could be out at work.
Still, it gives me the creeps.
I’ll be glad when we’re leaving, even if it is just to end up sitting in traffic.
A path with spotlights along the sides leads up to a big oak door with an old-fashioned brass knocker. The shades are drawn on the windows at the front of the house, and I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this whole thing all over again.
Like E.A. asked, I hang back a little and let him take the lead.
He uses the knocker after a quick glance reveals there’s no doorbell.
The knocker’s pretty damn loud.
There’s no way anyone in the house didn’t hear it.
I glance at E.A. as we wait.
He seems composed, unbothered. It’s almost like he’s bored.
He’s probably done this kind of thing a million times.
A couple of minutes pass. Nothing.
He shrugs and tries knocking again, this time staying next to the door and cocking his head as if he’s listening intently. I stay quiet, moving back a little more so I can see all the windows.
Again, nothing. The lack of response is starting to make my stomach churn.
E.A. knocks a third time, hammering that knocker as if he’s trying to take the door off its hinges.
I catch a flicker of movement in one of the upstairs windows.
The shades moved!
I move back to the door just as E.A. stops knocking.
“There’s someone upstairs. The shades just moved while you were knocking.”
“I’ll start up again in a minute,” he says. “If this guy doesn’t want his parents to know what he’s doing, he won’t want any of his neighbors to hear a ruckus that he can’t explain later. He’ll answer the door.”
He starts knocking again, and this time, we glance at each other when we hear the thunder of feet on the stairs inside. He stops knocking and stands back, motioning to me to move back a little more.
I do it, my heart starting to thump louder as the door is pulled open.
The guy looks just like his class photo. His face is contorted in anger, and he looks ready to smack someone. “What the fuck do you want?”
