by Lydia Reeves
I passed the cafe on my way back to my abandoned cart, where Geoff was stocking the pastry display. He gave me a friendly wave, and since he had no customers, I wandered over.
“How’s the bakery coming?” I asked, leaning against the counter. He gave me a pointed frown and reached for his dish towel. I suppressed a smirk and moved out of his way as he cleaned the fingerprints from the spot where I’d leaned. Geoff was a bit of a neat freak, especially where his food was concerned.
“It’s ninety-percent done, I think,” he told me. “I’m waiting on the new dishwasher to get installed later this week, and then I’m out of here.”
“Are you excited?” I asked, even though the answer was plain.
“Excited, yes. Also terrified,” he confirmed with a grimace. “It’ll be fine though, I know. I just can’t believe it’s actually happening.” He looked at me and his eyes narrowed. “What about you? Are you ready to take over the cafe?”
I’d been helping in the cafe since I started working for Sam, so my actual duties would barely change. But I knew what he meant. Was I ready for the change to my daily routine, the added pressure? It was ridiculous, honestly, that I was worried about it at all.
But Geoff had known me for a long time, and he correctly interpreted my hesitation. “It’ll be fine, you know. You already know what to do. Hell, you pretty much know everything about everyone who walks in the door.”
I smiled at him, but it felt a bit forced. “You’re right, but it’s not that. I know it’s stupid, it’s just…”
His face softened. His shrewd eyes saw more than I wanted. “I’ll be fine,” he told me gently. “The bakery will be a success. And if it’s not, I’ll just come back and knock you back down to part-time, right?”
I huffed out a laugh. Part of me was embarrassed that he could so easily see my fears, see how much I worried about the people around me, and how much I feared things I couldn’t control, but the greater part of me was grateful for his reassurance.
“I know. It’ll all be fine. I’ll just miss you.” I tried to say it lightly, but Geoff could always see more than I wanted to give away. He leaned across the counter and gave me a quick, tight hug, and it worked. I went back to my work feeling a little bit calmer and more optimistic.
His bakery would be a success, and he would be happy there. Sam would do just fine, even down an employee. And I wouldn’t have to worry about either of them.
* * *
My good mood lasted through the rest of my shift, and when I left to make the twenty-minute walk home, the sun was still bright over the horizon. The spring air was warm and thick, the ground only barely damp from recent rain, and I hummed to myself as I noted the little changes around me as I made my way toward home. Bright tufts of green grass poking up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The sounds of songbirds chirping in the trees. A cluster of Canada geese staking claim to the small pond behind the strip mall.
Reluctant to leave the balmy spring evening behind, I opened the windows in my apartment as I made dinner, and enjoyed the gentle breeze as I ate at the kitchen table. I cleaned up immediately afterward, washing my dishes and putting them away before stepping over the pile that threatened to spill through the doorway into the kitchen. See, I’m not disgusting, I told myself. I can’t be a hoarder if I wash my dishes.
I debated what to do with my evening. It had been a few days since I’d checked in on Donna and Jake, my neighbors down the hall, but I remembered they were on vacation for the week. Instead, I dug through the bags clustered in the hallway until I found my haul from the craft store the previous day, and took the bags into my bedroom, where I spread the contents out on my bed, booted up my laptop, and lost myself in knitting tutorials and tangles of yarn and the feeling of closeness to my mother that only came from learning new crafts.
Only when it was full dark, and I couldn’t suppress my yawns any longer, did I shove everything back into the bag before changing and falling into bed.
I fell asleep with a cool breeze on my skin and a smile on my lips.
* * *
I wasn’t sure what awoke me, a sound or a feeling or a glimpse of shifting movement, but I came awake hard and fast. It was pitch black inside my bedroom and I had no idea what time it was, and only through the faintest hint of moonlight shining through the window did I see the outline of the figure that stood at the foot of my bed.
My heart slammed into my throat. Silhouetted in the dark, I didn’t realize he was facing away until he turned at my sharp intake of breath, then like a creature from a nightmare, reached an arm out toward me.
The lungful of air I’d drawn in exploded out of me in a scream, and the figure lunged.
Chapter 4
LEVI
I wasn’t a deep sleeper. It was probably a relic from my childhood, deeply ingrained and hard to break, from years and years of keeping an ear open for my father sneaking in late at night, trying not to wake the rest of us. The later it was, the more money he’d likely lost, and the harder my mother would cry in the morning. He’d been gone since I was a teenager, leaving his messes behind for the rest of us to clean up, but it still took only the slightest sound to pull me from sleep.
So, when a piercing shriek split the night, I was on my feet before my brain had even fully registered the sound.
Mom?
My dad hadn’t by nature been a violent man, but if it was late enough and he was drunk enough—and the more money he lost, the more he drank—well, let’s just say it wasn’t the first time I’d been awoken by a scream.
But no—I wasn’t at home in my tiny bedroom, crouching by the door to protect my brother. I wasn’t a kid. Had I imagined the sound? Maybe leftover from a nightmare that had dissipated upon waking?
Then the scream came again, followed by a crash so loud it rattled the wall of my apartment, and I realized where it had come from.
Marian.
I sprinted for the door.
Once I’d flung open the door to my apartment and barreled into the hallway, I pulled up short. The door to Marian’s apartment was locked—of course it was. I spent a handful of seconds pounding on the door and calling her name before I heard another crash from inside, then turned my attention to the lock. If she had the deadbolt set and I tried to kick it down, I would probably just end up hurting myself, and besides, my feet were bare. Did I have a crowbar? Unlikely. But maybe I could find something I could use to pry the lock off.
I dashed back into my own apartment, just as another scream split the air. Damn it. I was a police officer, and if there was one thing I could do, it was keep a level head under pressure, but I also knew time was of the essence. What the hell was happening in there?
I cast my gaze around the entryway of my apartment, and my eyes fell on the screwdriver I’d been using days earlier to change a broken electrical faceplate. Worth a try. I grabbed it, sprinted back down the hall, then wedged the tip of the flat screwdriver into the door jamb and slammed my fist down on it. The lock buckled under the pressure, and I immediately saw the deadbolt hadn’t been set after all.
Damn it, Marian.
Another crash sounded from inside, and I lifted my foot and aimed a kick at the door by the lock. It only took two kicks to break through—what the hell kind of shitty materials was this place made of?
I shoved through the splintered door, the light from the hallway spilling in to faintly illuminate my way, aimed for the hallway that had to lead to her bedroom—and promptly tripped over an enormous pile of…something…and went sprawling.
What the hell is all this crap?
Pushing myself back up, I dodged around a staggering pile of junk and navigated the narrow hallway to the bedroom, where I paused in the doorway. It took barely a second for my brain to process the scene in front of me.
A figure in dark clothes stood by the edge of the bed, leaning forward in a menacing posture, though one hand was clamped tight over the other arm as if protecting an injury. Broken glass littered the f
loor in the corner where a lamp had clearly been knocked off the nightstand, and the drywall was cracked where a body seemed to have been thrown against it. Marian? Or the intruder? I fought down a growl, deep in my throat.
The window was open, curtains fluttering in the soft breeze—well, that explained how the intruder got in—and as my eyes completed their scan of the room they landed on Marian, who was up on her knees on the bed, arms raised defensively. In one hand she clutched—were those knitting needles?
In the second I’d spared to take in the scene with one well-trained glance, the intruder turned, sensing my presence in the doorway, and leapt at me. Good. Away from her.
I didn’t have my uniform—hell, I barely had on any clothes—but that also meant I didn’t have my gun, or my handcuffs. I hadn’t seen any weapons in the hands of the intruder either though, so instead I settled my weight evenly on my bare feet, let the man approach, watched as he raised his arms to shove me back, then at the last second turned, my hands coming up lightning quick between his. I grasped one of his arms with both of mine, pulling him close while I twisted my body, using his own momentum to swing him over and drive him to the floor.
He went down with an “Oof,” and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Ah, well, that was familiar enough. When he landed on his back, I followed him down, pushing in close before he had time to react, driving my knee into his belly. When his arms lifted again to fend me off, I grabbed the one closest to me and quickly snaked my other arm around his neck, grabbing his wrist and pulling his arm tight across the front of his own throat, rolling him to his side as I did.
The intruder strained, bucking—this wasn’t a choke hold and he’d stay conscious—but I leaned my weight into his shoulder and the discomfort made him grunt and fall still. I turned my attention to the woman on the bed, my eyes scanning her in a rush, checking for injuries. I didn’t see any blood or bruising in the dim light, but what I did see was a thin tank top, the shape of her nipples clearly visible through the flimsy fabric. Beyond that she wore only underwear, skimpy white cotton, and her legs were long expanses of creamy skin that practically glowed in the moonlight. My pulse leaped.
Damn it, Levi, focus.
I forced my attention back up to her face, where her eyes were wide, pupils dilated and breath coming fast, but her gaze where it fell on the man I held pinned to the floor was clear, not panicked. Good.
“Marian, listen to me.” I waited until her eyes lifted to meet mine. “First, I need you to call the police. Tell them what happened, tell them Officer Mathes is on the scene and has it under control, but they need to send backup.” She nodded wordlessly. “Next, I need you to go into my apartment and bring my handcuffs. They’re with my uniform, in the bedroom closet. Can you do that?”
Her eyes were like two moons, eclipsing her face, but she nodded, then wordlessly rose and left the room.
When she was gone, I turned my attention to the man pinned beneath me. It was still dark in the room; I’d have to tell Marian to turn on the lights when she returned, but I could see he had a slim frame and dark, short-cropped hair. He was no teenage delinquent, but he still seemed young—mid-twenties, maybe? He was lying still now, not struggling against me, and with the smell of alcohol practically seeping from his pores I wondered if he was even still conscious. Part of me wished he would struggle, give me an excuse to pull his arm tighter, maybe punch him in his exposed face. A greater part of me was glad he didn’t—as much as I hated the kind of scum that took advantage of helpless people, I wouldn’t let him force me to do anything I’d regret.
Marian must have had trouble finding my handcuffs, because she returned only shortly before the police did, handing the cuffs to me before wordlessly climbing up to sit perched on her bed, squashed into the corner as far as she could get from me and the—I was pretty sure now—unconscious intruder. I didn’t have a chance to say anything to her again before the police arrived.
It was Officer Jansen, his eyebrows climbing nearly into his hairline as he took in the scene with me wearing nothing but pajama pants pinning a body to the floor.
“I live next door,” I explained tersely.
Jansen flipped on the lightswitch in the bedroom but nothing happened, and I glanced toward the broken lamp on the floor. He backtracked and turned on the hallway light instead, as I gave him a brief synopsis of the night’s events. Or what I knew of them, at least. Marian could fill in the gaps in the morning.
Things progressed quickly from there—he asked a few questions, heaving up the unconscious and now faintly-snoring intruder, who appeared to be bleeding, though not badly, from a wound in his arm. Jansen confiscated Marian’s knitting needles as evidence, and I assured him she would be fine, and I’d bring her to the station in the morning to file a report.
Throughout this exchange, Marian remained huddled in the corner of her bed, back pressed firmly to the wall, sheet pulled up in front of her body, eyes vacant. I wondered darkly what had happened in the minutes before I’d arrived. She nodded when Jansen asked if she was okay, shook her head when he asked if she was hurt, and he shrugged when I shot him an “I’ll take care of it” look. Then he hauled off the intruder, who had awoken but looked bleary and confused and went along in a willing stupor. In the light, he looked even younger than I’d guessed. Maybe late teens after all, I thought.
I shot him a death glare, an “I’ll deal with you later” glare, but my ire was wasted on his retreating back as Jansen shoved the kid ahead of him through the splintered remains of the front door, his voice filtering back down the hallway as he informed the kid of his rights.
Which left me alone with Marian. I took in her tiny form, huddled in the corner, unseeing eyes trained on the floor, and a pang shot through me. I crossed the room and carefully eased down on the side of the bed. I kept my voice soft, trying not to startle her.
“Marian.”
At the sound of my voice, her head shot up, eyes focusing on my face before shooting away. I watched as her eyes darted around the room, taking in my shirtless form, the broken glass that littered the floor, the overturned bag by the bathroom, yarn spilling out, and finally the towering mess in the hallway, bags and boxes and junk piled so high it barely left a path wide enough for a person to pass through. Her eyes grew wider and wider as they made the circuit, her breathing speeding and growing ragged, and I began to grow alarmed.
“Marian, you need to—” Her eyes darted back to land on my face, and she erupted in a shriek so loud I barely stopped myself from raising my hands to cover my ears.
“Get out!”
“What?”
“Out!”
I stared at her in consternation. “Your door is broken, and there’s glass everywhere. You need to—”
“Out! Outoutout get out!” She scrambled back away from me, even though there was nowhere for her to go, kicking the bedclothes away in her frantic scramble. “Get out!”
I did the only thing I could. I rose, stepping back out of her space. “I’ll be back in the morning. Come get me if you need me,” I said quietly. Then I left.
Chapter 5
MARIAN
The first thing I did once I’d calmed down was shut the windows and lock them. Which I knew was silly, since the intruder was now in police custody, but I only needed to learn that lesson once. Then I crawled back into bed, pulled the covers up over my head, and replayed the last hour, over and over in my mind.
I relived waking up in the darkness to a shadowy figure standing over my bed. I’d screamed, and he’d jumped, maybe almost as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but then he’d lunged for me and locked his hand around my arm. I’d flailed against his grip, knocking over the lamp, and tumbled us both into the wall. Somehow, I’d wrenched my arm away, stumbling across the floor to where I’d left my knitting and grabbing the bag. There’d been a scuffle then—I could barely remember—and he’d grabbed my leg, knocking me down, and I’d turned, frantically lashing out.
I would never forget the sensation of that knitting needle driving into his arm.
I shuddered helplessly as the vision played out. He’d drawn back with a choked sound and clapped a hand over his wounded arm, and I’d launched myself back up onto my bed, cowering back, screaming again—and then there’d been an awful thump and the sound of splintering wood, and the next thing I’d known Levi was there in the doorway, hair sleep-mussed and shirtless, eyes wild but laser-focused. And then he’d just…dealt with it. Brought the intruder to the floor and pinned him there with the efficiency of a man demonstrating a training move to a class, no wasted movements, barely any effort at all.
Then he’d calmly, rationally told me what to do next, and I hadn’t had the wherewithal to do anything more than follow his instructions and wait while the police came and took the intruder away.
But then he’d had to go and ruin everything by coming close, sitting on my bed and speaking to me in that soft, gentle voice like one might use on a wounded animal, breaking me out of my trance, and it had all suddenly hit me like a punch to the face.
He was here, inside my apartment. He’d seen it all—my shame, the secret I’d kept for nearly five years, my disgusting apartment—as clear as a flashing neon sign—“This girl is bat-shit crazy. Look at how she lives. She’s clearly mentally unstable.” He’d seen it all. Not to mention me in my underwear. The shame and humiliation had crested like a wave, joining with the feelings of fear and violation brought on by the break-in, forming into a toxic mix of panic, and I hadn’t been able to do anything but shriek at him to leave.
Smooth, Marian, that’ll convince him you’re not crazy.
I pulled the covers tighter over my head, trying to block it all out, but the blankets did nothing to stop the images that replayed on the backs of my closed eyelids.
