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I make it halfway across the living room before the doorknob jiggles again and the front door falls open. A scream traps itself in my throat as I rush to double back and hide. As three burly men donning masks and heavy boots stalk into the living room, I’m throwing myself back into the closet.
It’s a close call. So close, I’m covering my mouth and holding my breath. Who the hell are these guys?! What’s happening right now!?!
A barrage of panicked thoughts scrambles my brain. I try to sort through them, praying the men will leave soon. They’re burglars who will case the joint, discover we’ve got nothing of value, and then leave.
But the pit in my stomach tells me otherwise.
The dense clack of their boots against the floorboards confirms as much. They’re moving through the house, heading down the hall.
I catch a couple muttered words. Stuff like, “You sure this is the place?” and “Shh, hurry the fuck up.”
I’m shaking in the closet. I’m racking my brain about what I should do. We have no firearms. My only weapon is a bat. My phone is in my room.
Pop’s asleep in his.
Pop!
I twist the doorknob to the closet and almost step out on that panicked thought alone. He’s sleeping in his bed, probably snoring through the men intruding on our home. There’s not much he can do anyway—his sickness and disability prevent him from being very mobile.
As I hover with the closet door cracked open, my heart racing, the men aren’t hesitating. A loud thud sounds from down the hall. One of them has kicked open a door.
Pop’s door.
I dart out of the closet and start across the living room without thought of what I’ll do, or how I’ll defend myself against three men.
But it’s too late. In the next second, a bang goes off.
Just one, solitary shot of a gun, and then…silence.
I can’t even move.
For a second that seems to go on forever, I’m stuck standing horrified and wide-eyed in the middle of the living room.
They just… shot him.
He’s gone.
Pop.
I barely register what happens next. The explosion of sound and movement that comes out of nowhere. Several pairs of boots pound the floor and sirens wail in the distance. The deadly trio reappear in a shadowy flash, bounding for the door.
My body, acting on its fight or flight instincts, leaps back into the closet as they return to the living room.
They’re in too much of a rush to notice the slit I’ve left in the door.
“What about the girl? I heard he has a caretaker that lives with him—”
“You hear those sirens, dumbass? The law’s on the way! Bet that old bitch a few houses down who peeked at us in the window called ‘em on us!”
“We got it done. That’s all that matters.”
They bolt out the door, fleeing the scene into the night. By the time I scurry from the closet to the nearest window, they’re already gone.
But the cops are pulling up. Their red-and-blue sirens flash and car doors burst open. I meet them at the door, speechless and dazed in my nightshirt, with the baseball bat limp at my side and the sobering reality of what’s happened.
Pop’s dead.
MASON
