Invisible
Page 38
“Night, Dad,” Joy said, bouncing her feet in time to the music. She waved her mismatched blue polka-dot and pink-and-purple socks. “Have fun.”
“You, too,” he said. “Emergency numbers are on the door.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“And don’t be afraid to call the cell.”
Joy leaned back and enunciated pointedly: “Good. Night. Dad!”
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” His hand rested on the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Dad!” she warned.
“Bye!”
The door clicked closed. Gone.
Joy spent a few minutes clicking around the TV. Channel surfing was hard on her eye, so she shut it off, figuring she’d save it for the movies.
Hauling herself out of the couch, she went to double-cut the pizza into long triangle strips. Monica only liked to eat pizza that didn’t smudge her lip pencil and Joy had adopted the habit. Now she didn’t eat pizza any other way. She put her playlist on shuffle and grabbed a couple of plates.
She was singing and sawing the pizza slicer deep into grease-soaked cardboard when the phone rang. It was Monica on caller ID.
“Hey, there,” Joy chirped, shouldering the cordless phone.
“Hey...” Monica hesitated.
Joy stopped slicing. “What’s up?”
“Please don’t kill me or make me out to be the worst friend in the world.”
Joy laughed and lowered the volume. “Well, with an introduction like that, how could you go wrong?” she said, switching ears. “Spill.”
“Gordon asked if I could meet him at Roxbury downtown.” Monica paused, sounding unsure. It was weird. Monica was cocky and confident when it came to boys asking her out. She’d be the first to say that she’d had lots of practice. “And since we got interrupted last night by, well, you know...” Several things clicked together.
“Gordon’s the guy?” Joy asked. “Mr. Wide from the Carousel?” She put down the pizza slicer.
“Yeah.” Monica sounded guilty, maybe even shy. “But I told him I had plans tonight.”
Joy filled in the blanks. “Plans that maybe you could get out of?”
“Only because you’re my very best friend.”
Joy smothered the pathetic feeling that she’d be home alone with a patch over one eye and too much food for one person. Monica sounded so hopeful. “This must be some guy.”
Monica’s voice warmed with relief. “I’ll let you know!”
“Spare me the details,” Joy said as she placed one of the plates back on the shelf. “Go have fun, and remember—don’t be stupid.”
“I know. No Stupid. Sorry it’s last minute.” Monica’s voice slowed, clearly wanting to sound torn. She wasn’t fooling anyone, though. Gordon won, Joy lost. Score one for Team Penis.
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Joy. “Rock the Rox for me.”
“And you go enjoy some Joy time.”
“I’ll try,” Joy said, but Monica had already cut her off with “Bye!”
Joy hung up the phone and sighed. The last time she’d watched this movie, it’d been with her mom. There was a tight, hollow feeling in her stomach and a dry twinge in her eye. She brought her plate of pizza to the couch, tucked herself under the afghan and thumbed the remote to Play.
Well, she still had ice cream and pizza.
Hooray.
* * *
She fell asleep in the middle of Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist and woke to the sound of scratching. Joy sat up, clawing at the unfamiliar obstruction over her eye. Then she remembered: Weirdo in the club. Knife. Scratched cornea. Her fingers came away from the latex weave as she adjusted to the idea of being awake.
Alone. Dark. Ditched by Monica. Decent movie. Cold pizza. The TV was a blue screen. The clock said 2:18.
The scratching came again.
Joy threw off the afghan, removing the warmth from her body. The condo felt chilly and very, very empty. The automatic thermostat was set for sixty-two. Energy-saving mode. She shivered and got to her feet, accidentally knocking cold pizza slivers onto the floor. Grumbling, she knelt and tossed them back on the plate, ruffling the thick carpet with her hand to mask the stain.
Making her way to the door, Joy wondered if Dad had lost his keys. Why didn’t he just knock? Her brain waded through the fuzz. That didn’t make sense. She yawned. It was late. Or early. She was too tired to think straight.
The scratching came again. But it was coming from the kitchen window.
Turning around, Joy squinted. The sky outside was a patchwork of blue-orange low-glow. The wind was blowing through the backyard. She could hear it whistling outside. Maybe a branch was scraping the glass?
There was a long, drawn-out scrrrrrrrrrrrick!
A large shadow with glowing eyes loomed in the dark. The eyes were shaped like arrowheads and fiery, electric white.
Joy stumbled.
The eyes slanted in amusement. There was a scratch at the glass again.
Joy’s back hit the wall, her whole body tingling. The kitchen phone was still on the couch, impossibly far away. So was her voice. So was her breath. She stared, quivering.
A large palm pressed flat against the glass, thick fingers ending in points. There were only four of them. The hand flexed and dropped into darkness, but the eyes were still there, burning.
Joy blinked her one eye over and over, gripping the edge of the sliding closet door. She couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. She wanted to hide behind the coats, but she didn’t dare let the thing out of her sight. If it didn’t stay where she could see it, it could be anywhere.
Wake up, she told herself. Wake up, Joy!
The eyes narrowed. The claw reappeared and thumped dully against the glass. Once. Twice.
Joy could feel her head shaking. No no no no. Her fingers gripped the fake wood. No—go away!
The heavy hand retreated and reappeared as a fist. It struck casually, with a little more force. The window shivered. Sealant creaked. She watched the hand draw back again and slam down, spiderwebbing the first double pane.
Joy screamed on the third impact. Screamed again when the web spread. Her heart skittered as a single gray talon tapped the splintered glass, skipping on a shard or jag, white light shimmering as the finger drew words:
Joy stared at the words as they slowly flickered and died. The eyes and their owner faded from sight.
She wanted to move, bolt for her room or the couch or the phone and 911.
Smack! A bulbous nose plastered itself against the window. Joy shrieked and grabbed the flashlight out of the closet. She threw it at the broken window, knocking the light over the sink. The hanging lamp swung wildly, throwing erratic light and shadow.
The monster laughed, lips peeling back over fat brown tusks, and slid its tongue recklessly over the shards. The mouth opened wider. Its tongue curled and shot forward, shattering a waterfall of glass.
Joy sprinted for the couch. Laughter followed her like a rusty saw through wood. She dove, clearing the cushions, tucking smoothly into a tight, upward crouch. Her fingers shook as she grabbed the phone and dialed, botching the numbers. Joy hung up, swearing, and glanced back at the window.
Nothing.
She froze.
Joy glanced around, breathing hard.
Where was it?
She squeezed the phone, shaking, refusing to let go. Behind the patch, her eye burned, salt tears stinging. She was dreaming. Wasn’t she dreaming? She’d been watching old movies. She’d fallen asleep. It could have been a nightmare.
Joy peeked over the couch into the kitchen. The window wasn’t webbed in shattered glass. It reflected nothing but shadows and the light above the sink.
&n
bsp; She sank back and blinked her one good eye, feeling her heart pound. Had she just woken up? Had she grabbed the phone, half-asleep? Her body tingled with leftover adrenaline splash.
Vaguely wondering if she had subconsciously picked up some horror movie preview, she dropped the phone, glad that she hadn’t dialed an emergency operator in her sleep. Joy rubbed her patch. She’d had one too many emergencies lately, thanks.
She shook out her hands and checked the clock: 2:29. Joy shivered and wondered what Dad was doing out so late. She grabbed the pizza plate—something for her hands to do—and went to dump it in the sink.
Froze.
There were shards of broken glass in the four corners of the window, like jagged photo holders.
One pane left.
The plate shattered against the floor as Joy grabbed the phone and called her dad’s cell.
Copyright © 2013 by Dawn Metcalf
ISBN-13: 9781460326626
Invisible
Copyright © 2014 by Dawn Metcalf
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com