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“They went out. ”
Drinking, I guess she means. It’s only ten in Oregon. They won’t be back for hours.
“Did you lock the back?”
“Nuh-uh. ”
“All right. Can you go do that now for me?”
“Yeah, but West—”
“Just lock the back door. One thing at a time, Franks. ”
The pounding grows faint. She’s breathing heavy, fast. Scared to death. I try to focus on the sound of my own inhalations and exhalations.
When she was little and she had a bad dream, I’d take her into my bed and let her curl up beside me, matching our breathing until we both fell back asleep.
“I got it,” she says.
“Top and bottom?”
“Yeah. ”
“Okay, now the windows. ”
“What about the windows?” Frankie asks.
“Check them, just to be sure. ”
One thing about Bo—he’s a paranoid guy. Name a conspiracy theory and he’s a believer. Plus, he grows weed in a clearing in the woods behind the house and works as a guard at a prison that regularly releases men who hate his guts back into the stream of society. Bo’s house is a flimsy one-story POS ranch, but he’s got solid locks on the doors and bars on all the windows.
I murmur reassurances.
“It’ll be all right, baby.
“He’s not going to hurt you.
“He won’t get inside. ”
But I don’t know. I’m not there. It’s taking everything I’ve got not to grill her for details.
“I checked them,” she says finally. “They’re locked. ”
“Good girl. Now get as far from the door as you can so you don’t have to hear it. ”
“He’s crying, West. ”
“Just tune him out. ”
“I feel bad for him. ”
“Don’t. He made his bed. Go sit in the tub, okay?”
“Why?”
“You won’t be able to hear in there. It’ll be like you’re in a bubble. ”
“That’s dumb. ”
