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McCallister looked down, too, and this time, his soft laugh had a little bit of despair in it. “You should probably go to bed before he takes all this personally,” he said to Bryn, and their eyes met again just for a raw second before he moved back, leaving her cold and alone. “I don’t think he likes me. ”
She started to say something, and fell silent when he shook his head. “Better we don’t start anything between us,” he said, very quietly. “We have enough to worry about already without making our situation more … complicated. ”
“Right,” she said. “We’ll just … keep things simple. That sounds”—awful, she thought, but managed to change it to say—“awfully sensible. ”
“That’s me,” McCallister said, with a bitter twist to his lips. “I’m nothing if not sensible. ”
He sat down on the couch and fiddled with the pillow, clearly wanting her to go. So she did, with Mr. French trotting along in her wake.
She closed the bedroo
m door, leaned against it, and looked at the dog. “You are an asshole; you know that?”
He snorted, turned three times in a circle, and flopped down in the doorway.
“Now you think you’re a chaperone? Fine. Knock yourself out. No treats for you. ”
It seemed unnaturally quiet as she prepared for bed; she found herself stopping, waiting for some hint of sound from the living room. Bryn made herself move briskly, brushing her teeth, her hair, slipping into comfy flannel pajama pants and a cotton tank top. When she got into bed, Mr. French abandoned his post at the door and jumped up onto the bed to curl at her feet.
She glared at him “Don’t even try to make it up to me, loser dog. ” He licked his chops, grunted, and put his head down on his paws. “And don’t give me the sad eyes. I’m not going for it. ”
He whined softly, so she melted and petted him, and got rewarded with an affectionate lick before she turned off the lights.
Now it was quiet. Really, really quiet. Except for the always loud bulldog breathing, it felt like her apartment had been wrapped in soundproofing. She usually heard something from her neighbors—voices, smeared TV noise, something—but tonight it was like her room had been launched into outer space. Maybe they were on vacation. Or out to a late dinner.
Maybe they’re dead. That morbid thought crept in unexpectedly, and Bryn fought to get rid of it. Not everything had to have an awful explanation. Not every shadow had a threat.
But it was really quiet.
Bryn turned, twisted, sighed, flopped over on her back. It felt hot in the apartment. Almost stifling. She considered getting up to adjust the thermostat, but it was in the living room, and no way was she going out there. Better to sweat.
She drifted, almost asleep, and found herself sighing happily as a cool breeze dried the sweat on her face. Felt good.
Breeze.
Mr. French suddenly bolted off the bed, barking furiously, louder than she’d ever heard him, and the shock threw her off the opposite side in instinctive reaction. She fumbled for the gun she’d left sitting out on the nightstand, found it, and crouched behind the bed as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The pale square of the window. Billowing curtains. The cool breeze moving over her skin.
Mr. French, snarling and barking.
There was no one at the window. I didn’t open that. Someone else did. He may already be inside.
No. If someone had gotten in, Mr. French would have gone after him.
The next second, her bedroom door slammed open, and McCallister stepped in, took cover next to Bryn, and said, “What happened?” He was still in his suit pants and shirt, but his tie and jacket were off—that was a minor, fleeting detail, though. What she mostly noticed was that he’d come armed. His voice sounded a lot calmer than she felt. “Window,” she said. “I didn’t open it. ”
Mr. French was bouncing up and down, ricocheting off the wall and snapping at the blowing curtains.
“Call him off,” McCallister said. “Let me check it out. Maybe you did and forgot. ”
“I didn’t! And it didn’t open itself!”
“I know. Just let me check. ”
She whistled, but Mr. French wouldn’t heel; he was fixated on the window, angrier than she’d ever seen him. McCallister shook his head and stepped out and moved like a ghost to the side of the window. Mr. French, apparently realizing he had backup now, stopped barking and stood at alert attention, watching as McCallister eased back the curtain and looked out. His body language stayed tense, even after he gave Bryn the all-clear sign and slid the glass closed. He checked the lock. “Not broken,” he said. “Someone must have slipped the catch and opened it. Not that hard to do, with these kinds of cheap locks. I just didn’t expect anyone to come up the wall. It’s a pretty rigorous climb. ”
“Could you do it?”
