Could he hear me? There’s no time to second guess. I reach for a large shard of glass behind me as the knocking persists.
“Royal admitted everything! Please open up! I need you, man.”
“Hello?” Byron’s brother says at the door.
“Who are you?” Cline asks in a quieter tone, distress still in his voice.
I cut my finger on the glass, a sharp, jabbing pain that stings as I apply pressure to the rope and start cutting. I use my coat sleeve to protect my skin, but the pressure from just the cut on my finger hurts worse than the side of my body and my head.
“Whoa, your face. That scared me.” Byron’s brother laughs a little. “I’m Lynda’s uncle. Who are you and why are you at the house so late?”
“I’m here to see my friend, Stokes. It’s important.” His voice is hoarse. Is he crying?
“Oh, I drove him home. He’d been drinking, and when I showed up, he said he’d better go. Didn’t want him to drive…” He pauses, and I wonder if he knows Cline’s drunk.
“I have to tell him something important and he’s not answering his phone…”
I need the phone. This rope is taking so long. This isn’t going to work. My chest tightens and my sweaty palms keep slipping against the raincoat sleeve. He’s going to find me on the floor, and he’ll kill me for trying to escape. And then he’ll kill Stokes, and Mom and Ron.
I shake my sleeve away and push the glass through the rope with my bare fingers as hard as I can, cutting into my palm as I push, letting out a sharp gasp.
“Okay then, goodnight, son.”
I’ve got seconds to finish this. What then? Grab the phone and run? Leave Stokes here? Call the police when I get far enough away?
The footsteps come back, thunk, thunk.
He’ll see me soon, and—
The rope around my wrist slacks and knocking at the door echoes down the hall once again.
The thunk, thunk of his boots down the hall is faster this time. I free my hands, rip the tape from my mouth with a flash of pain that takes the focus off the searing pain in my palm for a moment, and untie the rope around my legs as he asks, “What did you not understand? You’re disturbing us and the neighbourhood.”
“Is Lynda here? I need to talk to someone. It’s about a friend—my friend is dead.”
“She’s in bed! Now get lost or I’ll call the police.”
If I call out, he’ll hear me. He has a knife—he’ll hurt Cline. If I don’t, and Cline leaves, I’m on my own and so are Stokes and Stevie.
I scramble to my feet and round the counter, grabbing Stokes’s phone, and dial the police as I peer around the corner of the kitchen, down the hallway, whispering my name, address, and telling them about the intruder in my home. The operator asks me to stay on the line as the man speaks again.
“Well, maybe you should come in, son.”
No. He can’t. He’ll kill him.
I lean into the hallway farther with a finger over my lips and shake my head, eager to warn him away, but the front door is closed over most of the way. The police won’t be here in time if he comes in. I need to distract him. I need to buy us time.
My phone’s upstairs.
I can call my phone—make him realize I got loose—make him think I’m up there. I need to make a noise so he’ll come inside, but one that won’t endanger Cline.
I grab my mallet again, looking around for something to smash, but I won’t have enough time to get away if I’m out in the open here in the kitchen.
I slink down the hallway to the closet door, open it quickly, and slam it hard behind me. My heart pounds in my chest, as I lean back against jackets. Shuffling feet step onto the hardwood from the front door and thunder down the hallway past the closet door, stopping just after it at the entrance to the kitchen—where he surprised me.
I end the call with the operator and tap my name from Stokes’s contacts.
My ringtone echoes from upstairs. I hold my breath, listening, and his boots thunder down the hallway, past the closet again. Moments later, the stairs creak beneath his weight. Once he’s at the top, I end the call and open the closet door, blinking as my eyes readjust to the light from the foyer. I step out into the hallway, and Cline peers in through the half-closed door.
“Lynda?” he asks, raising his voice as his eyes open wide at the sight of me. “What the hell’s going on?”
I look up as footsteps thunder down the hall upstairs.
“Run!” I mouth as the stairs creak.
I slip back into the closet as they thunk against the hardwood.
“Where is she?” Byron’s brother shouts.
“What’s going on?” Cline asks.
Why didn’t he run?
I slip the phone in my pocket and switch the mallet from my left hand to my right as they continue to yell at the front door. I open the closet door and sneak down the hallway toward Byron’s brother as he pulls the knife out in plain view of Cline.
“Tell me. Where did she go?” he demands.
I draw the mallet back and smash it against the back of his head. He wobbles and turns around, holding one hand to his head and jabbing the knife out at me.
Cline jumps on him and pulls him back, tackling him to the wooden porch, pinning him down as sirens ring out in the night.
“Cline!” I shout.
Byron’s brother rolls him over and stabs him in the shoulder as I step outside. Cline’s arms go limp and drop as the man struggles to his feet, his eyes trained on
