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Chapter Nine
Niko
The headlightsof my truck pool over the driveway, illuminating my old garage. I tap the button to open the door and idle while it cranks up. It needs replacing. If I remember correctly, my parents had a new one put in about fifteen years ago. I’ve put so much time into working on Aislin’s—fuck, I mean, my other—house that I’ve been slacking on my own upgrades. My parents took good care of their home, especially after the economy picked up and us kids became more independent. It was outdated, but what house around here wasn’t? For a single guy who’s never home, the house has been working just fine, but I suppose it’s time to start upgrading.
I pull my truck in and cut the engine. After stabbing the garage door button, I sit in the quiet darkness. Scrubbing a hand over my tired face, I run it through my hair before letting it fall limply to my lap. Today was another waste. We combed through every cab, bus, train, and independent driver in the area, hoping just one person had caught a glimpse of Rebecca. Anything, any tiny ass lead but we came up empty-handed. I expected as much but hoped for better. I can’t say I’ve been a shining example of positivity lately. With each day that passes, the negativity creeps in further.
With a sigh, I climb out into the darkness of my garage. An eerie feeling slithers up my spine. My right hand settles on the butt of my gun where it’s holstered just behind my right hip, and I look around the unlit space. A workbench runs parallel along the back wall; pegboard tiles the wall above it, to the left of the window, with an array of tools hanging from hooks. Beside the bench are two waste bins—recycling and garbage—but not enough space between for someone to hide. I turn slightly and move to the front of my truck. The right side of the garage has the new cabinetry I installed after I moved here. The shelving Dad had up was a serious safety hazard. And the tools I wanted to store wouldn’t fit.
Fuck, I curse myself. Nobody’s here. When I pulled the truck in the single-car garage, I would have seen someone, but the thought brings no comfort when I still feel like I’m being watched.
I stare out the single window into my backyard, straining my eyes to see through the thin amount of moonlight streaming through the smudged glass. The memory washes over me of that time I ran through the woods looking for Aislin. I’ve walked many nights alone since then, and each time, that same feeling of sickness comes over me. That desperate desire to either break out in a run or turn back to safety makes me feel like a damn pussy, but I haven’t been able to shake it since I was just a kid.
I roll my head, cracking my neck from side to side, and force myself to relax. I’m overworked and under-rested. That’s all this is.
The second that thought leaves my mind, Betsy howls loudly from inside my house.
“Damnit!” I remove my gun from its holster, cursing myself again. This time for not trusting my gut and letting my guard down.
Positioning myself next to the door, my gun gripped down by my side, I listen. More of that eerie silence engulfs me. Betsy growls again and lets out a sharp series of barks. Every muscle inside me tenses as if I’m expecting someone to burst through the door. Her paws click across the floor, so quietly that if I weren’t listening, I wouldn’t hear them. I think she’s moving toward the window.
Then silence.
I grip the knob, turning and pushing the door open. The hinges creak—the same way they have for thirty years. The damn things need replacing. That thought drifts away as I zero in on my training and focus on my surroundings.
The floorboards pop underneath my boots. I make my way across the hall, both hands gripping the pistol I hold up and ready. I turn to my left and scan the living room. A shadow flashes across the wall, and I nearly jump out of my fucking skin with the rush of adrenaline that hits me. A car turns down my street and headlights glow through the front window. Son of a bitch.
A low growl sounds again from near the back of the house. With the front clear, I make my way cautiously in that direction. Another floorboard snaps as I walk past, and I’m thankful they aren’t creaking. Whoever’s in my fucking house knows he isn’t alone, but it’s harder to pinpoint my location when only certain spots on the floor make noise.
The dining area has a low-sitting bay window, and that’s where I spot Betsy. The old dog is up on her hind legs, front paws pressed against the glass. The steam from her heavy panting fogs the glass in front of her, causing her to whip her head back and forth to see around the cloudy vapors. She lets out another low growl; her black eyes fixed on something outside. A ball of tension releases from my gut, and my grip slackens on the gun. Nobody’s inside. Outside, though…
“What is it, Bets?” I ask, moving toward the patio door. Someone might not be in my house, but something out there is setting her off.
Her paws click agitatedly against the glass, and she snarls, still fixated on whatever she sees.
The door silently slides open with a push, just enough to stick one booted foot and half my torso out. The chilly night air brushes my skin. I scan the dark, looking for movement, for anything.
That eerie silence creeps back in, but I push it out. After five minutes of standing half outside my door with a gun in my hand and not seeing a damn thing, I’m convinced nothing’s there. Not anymore. With one last scan across the wood line at the edge of my property, I step back inside, throw the door closed, and lock it.
“Down, Bets,” I mutter as I slip my gun back into the holster and make my way through the dining area into the kitchen. I need a beer, stat. After a long day at work, it’s going on nearly ten p.m., and I’ve had nothing to eat or drink in hours. My old girl follows my lead, brushing her warm body against my leg, and I trail my fingers through her bristly fur. She stops at her bed at the side of the kitchen while I continue straight to the refrigerator.
The bottle cap clicks across the countertop when I toss it, and the refreshing taste of hops provides instant relief. I down half the bottle and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. I lean back down into the fridge in search of food, but there’s not much to choose from. I really need to hit up the grocery store.
I pull out the ingredients and prep a deli sandwich. One bite in and the exhaustion from a full day hits me like a wave. I won’t need the help of a workout to fall asleep tonight. For the first time in what feels like ever, it seems my body will give in and let sleep pull me under.
After washing down my dinner with the rest of my beer, I unbutton my shirt and remove it on the way to my bedroom. Dropping it in the hamper, I remove my holster and set my gun on the nightstand to the right of my bed then peel the white tee over my head. My pants are next, both joining the dress shirt, and in nothing but a pair of boxers, I fall face down onto my king-size bed.
“Fuck,” I mumble, unable to fight my eyelids drifting closed, and within seconds, any thoughts left of the day dissipate as sleep carries me away.
* * *
I bolt upright in bed.Betsy howls from her place in the kitchen, and I can dazedly hear her nails clicking frantically across the floor. My eyes burn with dryness from prying them open during a deep sleep. What the fuck is going on?
I strain to hear a sound, anything other than Betsy, and my groggy mind flits back to earlier this evening. Whoever set off my dog must be back. Shit.
The sleepiness dissipates, and adrenaline takes its place. This I know. This I’m familiar with.
Most people would probably even say I recklessly welcome the burn of the chase. Some fucker is lurking around outside my house, and he’s not going to get away this time. On that thought, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, snag my dirty pants from earlier, and tug them up over my hips. I grab my phone, rip the tee over my head and start dialing. This time, I’m calling in backup.
