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My paranoia had my shoulders tense and my neck sore from swiveling by the time I arrived home.
I locked myself inside and planned a night of reading when the knock came at my door.
4
As every single woman knows, when someone knocks on your door and you’re not expecting anyone—especially at night—the first rule is: DO NOT ANSWER.
Like seriously. I played dead, holding my breath, not moving. The knock didn’t repeat, and I assumed they’d left. Out of curiosity, I rose and went to my door with its little glass peephole. A glance through showed arms crossed over a broad chest. Like, really wide and intimidating.
Yeah, no way was I answering.
“I know you’re there,” growled a low male voice.
I didn’t reply because there was no way he knew. Most likely it was part of his schtick to get single women to open their door so he could murder them!
“I can hear you breathing.”
Like fuck he could.
“If you don’t open this door, I will.”
Ha. As if my door would be so easily penetrated. My apartment building might lack many things, but a solid door wasn’t one of them—as whatever had tried to claw in last night had learned. Add in my two sets of locks, and buddy would more likely hurt himself trying to kick it in than successfully enter.
“For fuck’s sake, stop dicking me around. I’ve got better things to do than stand in a hallway dealing with your cowardly ass.”
Cowardly? I pursed my lips before snapping, “I don’t know who you are, but you have the wrong apartment, so fuck off with your threats.” With that, I went back to my couch and had just plopped my butt down when the deadbolt clicked and my security chain rattled.
I gaped as my door unlocked—on its fucking own!—and the man from the hall entered. Not just any man. I stared as I recognized the scythe wielder from the night before.
The Grim Reaper, in my apartment.
Panic bubbled, and I jumped on my couch, standing on the cushion as if that would somehow give me leverage.
“Get out!” I hollered.
Rather than reply, he shut the door behind him. While he did that, I grabbed my book and flung it. “Take that, motherfucker. You chose the wrong woman to victimize.” Unlike those who screamed and cowered, I would die fighting to my last breath.
I grabbed a candle I’d never lit—out of fear of starting a fire—and tossed it. Then the couch pillow for my lower back.
Without batting an eye, he let them thump into his solid body and fall uselessly to the floor. Times like this I wish I had a samurai sword hanging over my couch like an ex-boyfriend of mine.
“Are you done having a tantrum?” the Grim Reaper asked.
“I won’t die easily,” I promised. I adopted a battle pose which, I should add, I’d copied from a movie. Half crouched, butt waggling in readiness, fists up. With my hair in a sloppy pony while I wore my sloth print pajamas. Totally intimidating.
Not.
It might be why he arched a brow. “What are you talking about?”
“You tracked me down so you could eliminate the witness. I remember you from last night. Swinging around your great big scythe.”
He held out his hands. “I’m not armed.”
“I’m not stupid. I know you keep it in your pocket.”
“I keep it stashed because, for some reason, people get a little antsy when they see it.”
“Ya think?” I hotly retorted.
