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As Jake drove through the city of Portland, he sped to duck and weave between traffic, a police light flashing atop his car like a beacon as he hurtled through intersections. Cars split between them, creating a path of desperation as they sped ever closer to their destination. Fiona held on tight in the passenger seat, her heart pounding loudly in her ears.
This time, they had found him. The killer.
Fiona had been right.
But if they didn’t act fast, it might be too late to save Deanna Walsh, and Fiona couldn’t live with that guilt.
They were in luck—it was a short drive, but through a heavily trafficked area—they could make it there faster than the police, so they pushed forward.
Finally, they reached the outskirts of Deanna’s neighborhood. Jake navigated through the winding streets, then slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop in front of her house. He opened the door and Fiona stumbled out, her eyes wide with fear as she rushed to the front door. She banged on it with both fists.
“Deanna Walsh? This is the FBI, please open up!”
Jake came up behind her, also banging. “FBI! Deanna Walsh, we believe you might be in danger!”
No answer came.
Fiona’s heart sank. She assumed the worst—that the killer had already gotten to Deanna, and they were too late. She looked at Jake with worry in her eyes as he stepped back and surveyed the house, looking for any sign of movement or life on the inside. He shook his head—there was nothing.
Until:
“H-hello?”
A low, grating voice on the other side of the door.
Fiona and Jake looked at each other, shocked, before turning to the door.
“Deanna Walsh?” Jake called out. “This is the FBI. Please open the door.”
“No… I can’t,” she said. “I can’t go outside…”
“Why, Deanna?” Fiona asked, her eyes stinging with panic. “Is there somebody in there with you?”
“No, it’s just me,” Deanna said. “It’s always just me and my pots. I don’t know why you think I’m in danger—I’m safe in here. Safe as long as I don’t go outside.”
Then Fiona realized: Deanna was agoraphobic; of course she wouldn’t want to open her door to the outside.
Fiona stepped closer to the door. “Deanna, we know you’re agoraphobic.”
“Yes, I’ve… been told I am,” Deanna said, her voice quiet and strange. “I used to try to get out, but it’s just… better this way. I’m safe in here.”
“Ma’am, we don’t think you’re safe,” Jake said. “We think someone is coming after you. Three other people from a support group you attended two years ago have been found dead.”
Fiona understood Jake’s blunt angle; they needed Deanna to listen, no matter what.
But she just said, “It’s okay, I’m safe in here. The doors are closed… it’s okay.”
Frustration coursed through Fiona. How could they get Deanna to listen? They couldn’t impose their will on her, but Fiona was certain it wasn’t safe to stay here.
She looked at Jake for any kind of idea, but he seemed to be as stumped as her.
“Please, ma’am,” he tried again. “Please just open the door. If you can’t come out, can you at least let us in?”
But Deanna didn’t respond. They waited for what felt like an eternity, but there was no answer.
“Deanna?” Fiona gently pressed. “Are you still here?”
No reply.
