Page 77 of Bad Intentions

Huh.

I open the door to the kitchen and flip the light switch there, but the light doesn’t come on either.

I tense up. This is strange. Maybe the circuit breakers are out. But why wouldn’t Grandma tell me?

In pitch black, the smell hits me first. It’s the smell of garlic and fresh bread, but nothing is being cooked. I can’t feel the heat from the oven.

Then I see a heap on the floor, a black shadow of a hump.

“Grams?” My heart gives out a panicking thud. “Grams?”

I rush to her, fall down to my knees, and touch her. “Grams? Grams!”

She won’t respond.

I pull the phone out of my coat pocket.

But then I hear a voice coming from the other corner of the kitchen. “Put the phone down, or I’ll shoot.”

41

JOSIE

“You should answer your damn phone,” the same voice says. It’s female, but I can’t see the face.

“What did you do?” I ask. “Who are you? My grandmother needs help.”

“Your grandmother deserved this.”

“Grams,” I say, trying to shake my grandmother awake. I don’t see blood, but then, it’s dark. I don’t feel anything on her or on the floor, but I don’t know what’s wrong with her.

“Get up,” the voice says more harshly. Then I hear a gun being cocked. “I said, get up. Or both of you will be dead.”

I blink rapidly, trying to get used to the darkness to see who’s pointing the gun at me. I stand up. Inside my coat pocket is my pepper spray. I move my hand toward the pocket, but the shadow walking across the kitchen stops me.

“You move, and I shoot. Understood?” The voice is harsh, raspy, unpleasant. Neither young nor old. I can’t figure it out. “Now walk toward the door. We’re going to my car at the back. I’m keeping my distance, so don’t even think about doing anything stupid. I won’t chase you. I’ll come back to this house and shoot your grandmother in the head.”

“Please, call the paramedics,” I beg. “She’s ill.”

“She’ll survive. Maybe. That is, if you follow the orders. Now, put your phone on the counter and open the door. Slowly. No turning around.”

I do as I’m told.

The person behind me holds the door as I let go and step out. I can smell her behind me. It’s an unpleasant smell—mold, mothballs, damp clothes. I could lunge at her, but I won’t take that chance. She has a gun, and I’m not a ninja.

“Please,” I beg, “my grandmother needs help.”

“Stop whining,” she interrupts me. “Back door. Now.”

We repeat the walk through the back door and into the backyard.

“Now, straight to the car parked in the alley,” she orders.

When we approach the car, an old sedan, the trunk pops open.

“Get inside,” the woman orders.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I won’t⁠—”