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Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
With a final push, as my fingers burn from the pressure of the metal against my skin, they give some more. The keyhole twists, and I hear the old, familiarclick.
I release a breath, dropping the fork and broken tine to the ground. Oh my god.It worked. I did it.
I twist the handle and step back as the door swings open. I stare around for several minutes, waiting for what, I’m not sure. Maybe for Chris to jump out and say he caught me. To tell me this was a test, and I failed.
When nothing happens and no one jumps out, I walk across the threshold and step out of the room. Even the stale air of the house feels better than the room I’ve been in. I gulp in the clean scent as if it’s water in a desert.
Now I have a decision to make. I could make a run for it, or I could try to search the house for my things. While I desperately want to get out of this house for good, and I know I have enough time for a decent head start, I also know there’s the smallest chance he’s waiting on the outside of the gate like before. As far as I know, the fence runs around the entire property, so that’s my only way out.
Knowing that, I decide I want to search for my things first. If I can find my phone, at least I’ll have a way to call the police before I leave the house. They can be on their way to me, so even if the worst happens, I’ll have a bit of a reason to hold onto hope.
Though…I have no idea where I am to give them an address so they can reach me. Hopefully the location data on my phone will be enough to do the trick.
I cross the room and climb the stairs slowly, my heart lurching with every sound in the distance. When I reach the upper floor, I check outside. Sure enough, his car is gone.
I release a heavy breath from my chest.
After passing through the kitchen and living room, I head for his bedroom. It’s the place I’m certain my things are after our conversation in the bathroom. After the guilty way his eyes had flicked in that direction when I asked about them. I’ll only search for a few minutes, regardless. If they aren’t here, I’ll have to take my chances with the gate. I have no idea when he’s going to return, but I still have the vague suspicion he’s been lying about being a teacher, especially given the strange hours he’s been working lately.
Checking the large clock on the wall, I see it’s just after ten thirty in the morning, further confirming my theory. He’d be running very late if he was any teacher I know. Wherever he works, whatever he does, he’s lying to me about it.
Stepping inside his bedroom, I cover my nose. I’m quite used to my own bad smells at this point, but his are so much worse. His bedroom reeks of vomit and death. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor covered in bodily fluids I’d rather not try to identify.
I decide to check the closet first. The first thing I notice is the uniform for a fast-food restaurant hanging near the back. Something clicks into place for me as I recall smelling fried food on his clothing before. Maybe I was right about him not being a teacher, after all. Without time to deliberate on that, I hurry to dump out the boxes I hid behind before. I rifle through the various photos and memorabilia from my career—more signed copies of my books, photos, framed social media posts and comments, photos of Chris and me at signings. The most disturbing is a clump of hair he’s framed, that I can’t help wondering how he managed to get ahold of.
No, scratch that.The hairwasthe most disturbing until I find a family photo I’m nearly positive once used to sit on my entryway table.
How could you have possibly found this, Chris?
Still, I don’t have time to dwell on any part of the discovery, or the questions it raises. I turn my attention to the nightstand next to his bed, which has a small drawer above a door on its front. I open the drawer first, sifting through a stash of receipts, an alarm clock, and several unmatched socks.
Nothing.
Moving on, I open the door at the bottom. When I do, I can’t believe my eyes. There, practically waiting for me, sits my purse. It’s as if I’ve run into an old friend. Seeing something so familiar, so safe—reclaiming what’s rightfully mine—brings me the greatest joy.
I grab it, digging through the contents as a sob chokes my breath.I can’t believe I found it. I can’t believe I did it.
Finally, my hand connects with my phone, and I pull it out, staring down at the screen. I press the power button with blurry vision and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I press the power button again.
No. No. No. No. No.
It’s dead, and I don’t carry a charger with me.Shit.
I search Chris’s nightstand with fervor, shoving things out of my way. When I finally locate the charger attached to the wall, I grab the cord, running my hand down to the end to check what sort of charger he has. I’m overwhelmed with relief when I see it matches mine. With shaking hands, I insert the connector into my phone’s charging port.
I dance in place, overwhelmed with joy and shock that this is actually working as I wait for the apple to fill the screen. When I stop dancing, I search my purse more. My wallet is still there, lying on top, along with a tube of ChapStick. I pull it out and swipe it over my lips. It’s a luxury that once meant nothing to me but now has me feeling brand new. Next, I go through my wallet to make sure everything is still there. Thankfully, it looks untouched.
