Page 5 of Apple of His Eye

I move toward the door leading downstairs into the unfinished space and hear it again. This time it’s louder.

Skkkrph. Thump. Skkkrph. Thump.

My heart jumps, and I move across the room for the gun holster I set down on the side table—the one my mother insisted I must have to catch all the shit I remove from my pockets the second I walk in the door. I take the gun out of the holster and check the clip. Flicking the safety switch, I cock it and begin moving back toward the basement door. My feet are silent on the wooden floor, and I slowly turn the knob, listening…

Waiting…

I reach for the flashlight hanging on the wall. I push the door wider and step onto the wooden staircase, pausing a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness below. I take one step at a time, my ears straining and focusing on every sound.

From the rain falling outside. To the creak of the boards beneath my feet. To the static air hanging in the darkness. I wait for the bump in the night that has me on high alert.

The closer I get to the bottom, the colder the concrete room feels, and my eyes distinguish between the shadows.

Moments turn into seconds and seconds into minutes…

And then I hear it…

Not a bump.

Or a bang.

But a soft, shaky exhale.

Then an inhale.

And then nothing.

I take another step and my barefoot touches the concrete. It isn’t just cold like I expect it to be. It’s wet, too.

Fuck.

I click on the flashlight, shining it down to the floor to see a trail of small wet footsteps coming from an open egressed window. They are too big to be an animal, but too small to make me think it’s a true enemy.

Better safe than sorry. I follow the trail to the darkest corner of the room, pointing both the flashlight and the barrel of my gun at the source.

“Please,” she gasps breathlessly. Her beautiful brown eyes are wide and filled with pure fear. I freeze, taking in every detail. She’s tucked into the corner, her knees up to her chest, but her hands are raised and visibly empty. Her dark hair is soaked and plastered to her head. There is something about the way her mouth trembles. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Who the fuck are you? Why are in you in my house?” I demand, keeping my gun trained on her. She might be small, but that’s not to say she couldn’t cause any harm. I don’t know what she’s hiding beneath the oversized hoodie drape over her body.

“I …” she trails off, her eyes on the weapon in my hand. Her pink tongue darts out and runs along nervously along her plush bottom lip. She believes I won’t hesitate to use it on her if I need to.

She’s right. I won’t hesitate.After all,sheis the one who broke intomyhouse. I notice a flicker of something masked beneath her fear, but I ignore it.

“Why are you in my house?” This time I add a little more gruffness to my demand. “How did you open it the window?”

“It was already open,” she answers softly, her eyes flicking toward where her wet footsteps started.

What the fuck? Was it?

I try to remember the last time I was down here was, or who was down here.

Fucking Atticus. I asked him a few months back to set up the internet. He ran a line for each room, coming up through the floorboards. I’m not one to leave my place unsecure and should have checked after he finished.

“Please. I needed to get out of the rain.” Her words are hurried and mostly mumbled.

I’ve never been a sucker for a pretty face, but something in my gut has me flicking the safety back on to my weapon as I lower it. How can someone so small be a threat?

“Were you checking for any window to climb into, or just mine?”

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