I’ll have to drain it again before the sale—if I can even get rid of them.
As I stand and whip around to head back up the stairs and inside, my eyes flick to the ground floor of the Holloways’ home. Their house sits back a bit from their dock like ours does. Someone is standing in one of the large windows on the lakefront side. A male. Facing me.
I instinctively wipe any remnants of tears off my face, embarrassed they may have seen me crying in my own company. I didn’t care enough to consider I had an audience during my breakdown, but the aftermath feels different.
Just as I meet the person’s gaze, they turn around and walk out of view.
From what I could see, they appeared on the younger side. It probably wasn’t Emmett Holloway. Was it his son, Rory? I feel like I would have recognized him. But whoever stood in the window peering down at me looked like a stranger.
The sun sinks behind the trees, creating a wall of shadows where mountains should be. My bedroom glows vibrant orange as I sit at my desk and open my laptop. I upload the boat images one by one, pulling them into a Facebook post. After checking prices, I decide to list them for lower than comparable used boats, as ours are nearly vintage by now. But not in a collectible way. They’re dated.
With only a few days before we leave here for good, I note on each post that I need them gone by Sunday—three days from now. It’s an estimation, but we’re hoping to have Mom’s place fully packed come Monday. The thought of folding an entire house neatly into boxes in that amount of time makes my bones ache. But the less I linger here, the sooner I can return to life in Seattle and process what my future looks like after this terrible shift.
My stomach releases an audible growl as I check the clock to see that I, once again, didn’t eat all day. Food has been the last thing on my mind since Mom’s death, but Amelia should be home soon with takeout boxes full of colorful sushi rolls.
She called after school, explaining she’d be home near sunset. So, in the next thirty minutes, give or take. To distract myself from hunger, I refocus on the computer and press Post on the last of the three boat listings, setting the radius out to Seattle. My best bet for selling them is probably right here on this lake, since anyone docking in the larger bays on the ocean is going to steer clear of small boats. Worst case, I’ll leave them at the dock. Include them with the house when we sell.
I’m about to close my laptop when I hear something. An indiscernible sound. I’m suddenly conscious of how alone I am in this house, aware that my mind has been lost in the technicalities of usedboat postings. I look at my bedroom door, cracked open, and stare hard into the lit hallway. I hear and see nothing. Yet that unnerving sensation remains.
I looked this up once, as I’ve felt it many times before. I read that if you often feel like someone is watching you, it could stem from insecurity or general fear. Like the pure nature of being perceived gives you feelings of unrest. But I never felt like that’s what I was experiencing. So I looked deeper into the connections of humans and primates, hunted and eaten through time. It’s like we have innate alarm bells, always running, always processing, sending us cues to indicate we may be prey to dangerous species in our midst. Like a gut feeling. It’s a built-in survival tool that can sometimes set false signals off in our brains when there isn’t really anything wrong.
I could have sworn something hit my eardrum. But with each passing second, it becomes harder to know if I even heard something. I must be paranoid. Overemotional.
Realizing I haven’t taken a full breath since I thought I heard something, I take a deep one and move my computer’s cursor over to the Sleep button. As I do, I hear another noise. This time, it’s considerably more obvious, and much more terrifying.
“Lakefront door open.”
The female robot voice echoes throughout the house. The speaker/panel is located on the wall by the front door, but since my bedroom is open and this is a single-level home, I heard it faintly.
Robot Woman has a recognizable voice and cadence. It chimes every time we enter or exit one of the doors of the house. But if I’m the only one here, what set it off?
Even more concerning, the “lakefront door” is on the wall opposite the front door, leading out to the wraparound deck that overlooks the lake. It’s the door closest to where I am now. Meaning if aperson set it off, they’re down the hallway from where I am in this exact moment. Just outside the office around the corner.
I want to lunge for my bedroom door, slam it closed, and lock it. But I don’t. I go back to holding my breath in utter stillness.
Of course, I wonder if it’s Amelia. But my brain speedily reminds me that she shouldn’t be home yet. I can’t imagine she’s had enough time to get to Blair, sushi in hand, since we last spoke.
The warm glow of the sunset has mostly faded into a purple hue of twilight. She said she’d be back after dark—which is approaching.
Then it must be her,I rationalize.
But other than the proof of the changing light, I haven’t noted any other noises in the mere seconds since Robot Woman chirped. Surely if Amelia had gotten home, she’d shout for me, or I’d hear jingling keys and the rustling of a bag filled with rice and fish and vegetables.
Why would she use the back door to enter the house?
It’s simple. She wouldn’t.
I pray I’m wrong. IbegI’m wrong. To confirm, I silently lift my smartphone off my desk and open the Find My app. It refreshes immediately.
Amelia, Bellevue, WA • Now, 11 miles
She’s still on the highway. My face is hot, pulse thumping like a heartbeat as I go through every possible scenario in my head, still unable to move toward the hall.
Did I forget to shut the door all the way when I came in? And the wind pulled it open?
Is Mom’s security system glitching?
Both are reasonable prospects. It’s gusty outside. And I don’t know the quality of the security brand.
