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Instead, I open the romance novel I’m in the middle of reading and try to convince myself that love isn’t one big crock of shit.
Bang!
It’s difficult enough falling asleep in a house by yourself when you have anxiety but being woken up by a loud noise only confirms your irrational fear that someone has in fact come to kill you.
I sit up, spine straight, and strain to listen. In Clearview, I learned all of the nighttime sounds, like the clanking of the vents whenever the heat was about to kick on, or the cries of the patients in need of sedatives, and the differing footsteps of the aides making their rounds. But I can’t identify where this bang came from, or what caused it.
I have three choices:
I can call the police. But I don’t know if I’m in danger yet, and it might be for nothing. I’d hate to wake the neighborhood with sirens and lights over a pan falling in the kitchen cabinet. Not a great way to make a first impression.
Choice Two: I can jump out the window to escape the possible intruder. But if I broke my ankle, I wouldn’t be able to run away. Plus, the last thing I need is for someone to think I’m jumping off the roof to try to hurt myself again. I’ll be back at Clearview in less than twenty-four hours.
My last choice is my least favorite: I can be a big girl and go downstairs to find out what the bang was.
After weighing my options, I grab Tyler’s old baseball bat—the one I found in the closet earlier and propped against my nightstand in case I needed it for a moment like this—and tiptoe out of the bedroom.
It’s fine. It’s probably nothing.
Or it’s an escaped convict here to murder you.
No, that’s not helpful. Maybe a bird flew into the window.
Birds don’t fly at night, you idiot.
Shit. That’s actually true.
I peer over the railing at the top of the staircase, and moonlight spills onto the tile from the open door—the front door that was locked shut before I went up to bed. It’s an intruder. It has to be. How else does the front door magically swing open in the middle of the night? My heart races. I need to get back to my bedroom so I can call the police. But before I can move, a dark figure appears at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hey!” His deep voice thunders, shaking me to my core.
My knees lock up, and I stand there frozen.
He bolts up the stairs, taking them two at a time to get to me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I shriek.
I panic.
Then I throw the bat.
I legit throw the only weapon I have at the crazed killer.
Not the smartest move, but it ends up paying off. The bat cracks the man in the head and sends him tumbling back downstairs, buying me time to run and lock myself in my bedroom. I grab my phone off the nightstand and dial 911. The operator promises someone will be here soon, so I hide in the closet and pray the maniac doesn’t kick down my door before the cops get here.
I’m not waiting long before I hear muffled voices. I creep across the room and press my ear against the door until a booming voice says, “Ma’am, this is the Beachwood Police. I’m entering your home.”
That was quick.
I glance out the window, and my eyebrows press together. No police car with flashing lights. Not even an unmarked vehicle. The cul-de-sac is desolate at this hour.
It’s not a cop. It’s the murderer trying to trick me!
“Nice try,” I yell through the door. “I know you’re not the police. But you’d better get the hell out of here, because I called them and they’re on their way.”
“My name is Officer Russo.” His footsteps are slow and heavy on the stairs, and his voice gets louder as he ascends. “I received a call about an intruder. I can show you my badge if you open the door.”
