Wish You Were Dead

out of the hot tub and put it on?

No. He reached a pane of clear glass and peered in at the pool, his head slowly turning in the direction of the hot tub. Even before his eyes met mine, I thought I recognized him. The wavy hair and the chipped tooth. He was the person of interest. The one in the sketch Reilly had given the police. Only his face was covered by a short beard and his hair was longer than in the sketch, and uncombed.

I still hadn’t moved when our eyes met. For a second he actually looked startled to see me. Then his hand went to the sliding door’s handle, but it was locked from the inside. He moved to the next door and tried that, but it was also locked. He looked up and our eyes met again. He gestured with his hand for me to come and open the door from the inside.

I was frozen with fear, my stomach knotting, my chest so tight I could hardly breathe. All I could think about was getting back into the house to call for help. I looked again at the robe on the chair. His eyes followed mine and he blinked as if he knew what I was thinking. He moved down to the next sliding door and tried it. And then the next.

I was almost sure all the sliding doors were locked. Once we closed them for the winter, we never went through them. But he didn’t know that. He moved farther away along the outside of the breezeway, down to the next sliding door. What would he do once he realized all the doors were locked? I didn’t know, but I did know that I couldn’t stay in the hot tub any longer. But if I got out, he would see me. Naked.

He reached the last sliding door and tried it, but like the others, it wouldn’t open. Terrified, I watched as he looked around, up, and down, as if trying to find a way to get in. He’s not going to stop, I thought. He’s going to keep trying until he gets in. He knows he can’t just go away because I’ve seen him and he knows I’ll call the police. He killed Lucy. He may have killed Adam and Courtney, as well. He’s not going to just change his mind and go away.

I got out of the hot tub, covering myself with my hands as best as I could, and quickly pulled on the robe. He saw me and started back along the windows. But now I wouldn’t look at him. Keeping him in the corner of my eye, I hurried along the side of the pool, toward the breezeway.

He stopped by a sliding door as if he thought I was going to open it for him. I couldn’t imagine why he would think that, and I didn’t care. When I didn’t stop to let him in, he scowled and began to jog alongside me on the other side of the glass.

“Let me in!” he yelled. “I have to talk to you.”

I started to run toward the breezeway. I had to get into the house. There was a panic button by the front door. I would trip it, then lock myself in a bathroom.

“You have to listen to me!” he yelled, still moving alongside me.

What I had to do was get to a phone and call the police. I started toward the house. Outside, the man raced ahead, trying the sliding doors that lined the breezeway. “I have to talk to you!”

Forget the panic button, I thought. Just get to the phone. Call the police. Then lock yourself in a bathroom.

“Wait!” He thumped his hand against the glass.

I kept going. Up ahead, near where the breezeway met the house, someone had left a wheelbarrow and a shovel outside. The man stopped and picked up the shovel. I kept running.

Crash! Glass shattered behind me.

Get to the phone, I told myself as I ran. You have to get to the phone.

I went through the door at the end of the breezeway and into the exercise room, past the treadmill and stationary bike. From behind me came grunting and the clatter of broken glass falling to the floor.

He’d gotten in.

The next room was the kitchen.

Get to the phone. Dial 911.

I got into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and turned the keypad to face me. I could hear footsteps and heavy breathing coming closer. I jabbed my finger down. 9 … 1 …

The phone was ripped from my hand, and clattered to the floor. I felt his hands close tight around my arms, and looked up into his face. It was dirty, the beard untrimmed, his hair wild. He smelled of sour sweat. “You have to listen—”

I could hardly breathe from fear. My heart was speeding, my whole body shaking. My stomach felt like a rubber band twisted a thousand times. I knew what I was supposed to do. Kick him, I thought. Do it!

But I’d never kicked anybody on purpose. I’d never even hit anyone. I knew it was okay. There was nothing wrong with it. It was exactly what I was supposed to do. What my parents would want me to do.

“Listen to me!” he demanded.

I shook my head and tried to twist out of his grasp, but it was no use. He was squeezing my arm so tight it hurt.

“Stop fighting!” he said.

Kick him, I thought. Do it!

“Listen!”

I stopped struggling. I was terrified, and dizzy. My head felt light. Everything began to spin. The floor was racing up toward me.

When my eyes opened, I was lying on my back. The lights in the kitchen ceiling were off. Something cold and wet was on my forehead. I could hear crunching. I propped myself up on one elbow. The man was sitting on the floor beside me, eating a bowl of granola. A little white ribbon of milk trickled down his beard.

“You okay?” he asked, chewing.

I slid the wet dishtowel off my forehead and sat up. My robe was pulled down past my knees, as if he had arranged it to cover as much as possible. With one hand I pinched the collar tight around my neck. Somehow I knew he hadn’t touched me. Still, even with the robe on, I could feel my nakedness beneath. I looked around. Where was the phone?

“Don’t worry,” he said, and swallowed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Was he saying that to get me to drop my guard? If he didn’t want to hurt me, why had he broken in? I wished I had more clothes on and wasn’t trembling so much. After swallowing to moisten my throat, I asked, “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”

Instead of answering, he shoved another spoonful of granola into his mouth and chewed. “You can’t believe how hungry I am,” he said, his cheeks bulging.

You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, I thought nervously.

He swallowed. “The cops are looking for me. Your friend Tyler is looking for me. They all think I killed Megan.”

“Megan Woodworth?”

He nodded. “Tyler told you?”

“No, someone e-mailed me a newspaper article,” I said. I’d also once read an article about a woman who’d been kidnapped and had spent hours talking calmly to the kidnapper until he let her go. But was that kidnapper a granola-eating serial killer?

He nodded and shoveled another spoonful between his lips. “Megan was my girlfriend.”

“Why is Tyler looking for you?” I asked.

He stopped chewing. “He didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head.

“Megan’s his sister.”

“But his last name is Starling and I thought her last name was Woodworth.”

“Starling?” He stared up at the kitchen ceiling as if thinking. “Oh, I get it. Clarice Starling.”

“Who?”

“The Jodie Foster character in Silence of the Lambs,” he said. “Tyler’s convinced himself that I’m a serial killer.”

“You’re not?”