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She was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating. The gun beginning to wobble. She considered firing a warning shot, but was afraid of the ricochet. “Come out. Now!”
Damn. He wasn’t responding. In fact, he hadn’t so much as moved a muscle.
Cautiously, her finger on the trigger, she moved forward to the side of the door in case he should jump into the bathroom and start firing.
But that wasn’t his style, was it?
“Who the hell are you?” she cried and then, ever so cautiously looked into the bathroom, to the mirror.
He was still in the same position. Crouching. Hiding halfway behind the door. His eyes were guarded, but his hair was visible. She swung her straight arm around the edge of the door. “I said ‘Drop!’ ” she cried.
Not a whisper.
Trembling, she repeated, “I said—” But the command died in her throat and she felt all the strength seep out of her. “For the love of God.”
As she looked more closely, first in the mirror, and then around the door to the wall itself, she realized she wasn’t looking at some sinister cloaked figure ready to do her bodily harm. The “figure” wasn’t a person at all. What she’d seen in the distorted image of the broken mirror was her own disguise, the padding and wig suspended from a hook in the wall behind the door. Just where she’d left it not an hour earlier.
“Idiot,” she muttered, leaning against the vanity. Her knees were jelly and she felt herself flush in embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She was letting her paranoia get the better of her.
You keep this up and you’ll end up in the mental hospital again. Is that what you want? For God’s sake, get a damn grip, would ya?
She studied her image in the cracked mirror and thought it was
ironically symbolic that her face was disfigured and warped.
So so true.
As her heart rate eventually slowed, she collected her wits and yanked the window shut tight, latching it securely.
Why would anyone, even a maniac as malicious as her husband, harm an innocent person? She’d leaped to the wrong conclusion. Again.
Still, she felt as if someone were watching her, following her, tracking her. The feeling never left her. From the moment she awoke, all through her days at the diner, on the road, and even in the cabin, it was the same. She glanced around the room and wondered about bugs—the kind with tiny microphones and itsy little cameras—and even her own computer. It had a camera in it. Could someone even now, be looking through—
Stop it! No one’s been here. No one’s planting listening devices, for God’s sake. You don’t even talk to anyone. And as for cameras—really? Why would anyone on God’s green earth go to all that trouble? Why not just come in and kill you in your sleep? Get over your crazy self!
Whether there was reason or not, she did a quick sweep with her flashlight of the obvious places, and double-checked her stashes that she’d hidden to make certain her money and fake licenses and passports that had cost her so much were in place. Using the cash she’d stolen, she’d purchased them from a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend. She and the contact had met twice, once in an alley behind a crowded bar in the wee hours and the second time when she’d actually been handed the perfect-appearing documents on the waterfront of the slow-moving Mississippi in New Orleans in the dead of night. With the noise and lights of the French Quarter not far away, they’d made the exchange. Being that close to the river alone had made her skin crawl, and dealing with the skinny sharp-nosed man who didn’t hide the fact that he was carrying a weapon, had been nerve-wracking. The pictures on her ID were far from perfect, of course, but so far, she hadn’t been asked to show her driver’s license anywhere. That would change when she told her story, of course.
Oh, God, she hoped the officer she connected with would believe her.
Don’t freak out. You’re safe. You’ll go into the sheriff’s department in the morning and demand protection, explain yourself. Everything will be fine.
That of course was a lie, but she swallowed back her fear, forced her heartbeat to slow, and found a way to become calm again. Tomorrow, come what may, she would be done running.
The fire crackled and hissed. Warmth radiated through the small room. She closed her eyes on the couch and touched the underside of her pillow, making certain the pistol was back where she’d placed it.
As nervous as she was, she felt too wound up to fall asleep and the minutes ticked by in the dark. She heard the wind screaming through the mountains and that damn limb bang against the house. The drip in the faucet, too, was audible, but it had become a part of her environment and eventually, as the fire began to die, exhaustion finally took over and she drifted off.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but awoke slowly. Today is the day, her mind nagged, but she pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her to fend off the cold. She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. Who knew what the day would bring? After all, it wasn’t as if she’d gotten a full night’s rest. It had been late when she’d fallen asleep and her recurring nightmare of drowning in blood had been peppered with the noises of the cabin. Images of glowing eyes watching her as she’d frantically tried to swim had been accompanied by a keening laughter and the steady clap of her attacker’s hands. The wind screaming, the window panes rattling, the pounding of the branch against the house all added to her unrest. She’d even half-woken once, certain she wasn’t alone, that someone was near enough that she felt his warm breath against her neck, but after blinking her eyes open and seeing nothing, she’d rolled over and settled back into fretful sleep.
Hours later, her back aching from her uncomfortable position on the old couch, a crick in her neck, Jessica rolled over without opening her eyes. It felt as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Thankfully, she had a couple days off so she could sleep in.
And put off the inevitable? Isn’t that what you’re doing? Get up! Get going! Face the damn music. It’s time to get on with the rest of your life.
“No,” she said aloud and shivered, pulling up the sleeping bag as the temperature in the cabin had fallen overnight. She needed to get up and stoke the fire. Try to make herself presentable. Get her story straight.
What story? For once you’d better tell the truth.
That thought was foreign. Unappealing.
