Charlotte groans, grabbing my arm. Pulling from her hold, I go back to the door. “It’s not breaking, the door was open.”
“Please, let’s just go back home and call the police,” she begs.
“I’m going inside. Wait there if you want to.”
“Lizzy,” she calls after me in a hushed shout.
The apartment is dark. The smell of rotten fruit clings to the air like her trashcan needs to be emptied. “Hello?” I call out. A ruffling noise sounds from deeper inside the apartment, causing me to turn sharply. Charlotte hasn’t followed me inside, so it’s not her. Oh god, what if our neighbor was robbed and is tied up in there? Grabbing a knife from the block on her counter, I make my way toward the sound. “Hello?” I call out again. My heart pounds in my ears. Thoughts of what I may find ravage my mind.
Blood. Blood. Blood.
I grip the door handle to one of the bedrooms. My palm is clammy, my knees shaking. “One, two, three,” I breathe before pushing it open, the knife stretched in front of me. It’s just a room—a bed in the center, a wardrobe against the back wall—no tied up neighbor, no villain waiting to jump out. I release a breath, almost giggling to myself over my paranoia. What the hell am I doing? This is crazy. I’m crazy.
I turn on my heel to leave when the rustling sounds again, loud from inside the room. My arm shakes as I thrust the knife out in front of me. What the hell? I pull out my cellphone and turn on the flashlight, igniting every corner. I step back inside and go to the wardrobe. Holding my breath, I whip the door open and step back. A little squeak catches in my throat as a couple hanging dresses move with the gust.
Crap.
It’s empty. I look to the bed and bite my lip, lowering myself to see beneath. My pulse rushes in my veins, making my heart hammer. Lifting the covers hanging over the edge, I flash the light under, wondering what it must have been like for the officer who had to coax me out from under a bed years ago. Two eyes peer back at me, making me squeal and drop the phone. It takes my brain a second to catch up with my eyes. The cat meows, hitting his paw against a crumpled water bottle, making a crunching sound. Exhaling a relieved breath, I reach out. “Come here…” It doesn’t move, so I scoot underneath the bed to grab him. It scratches me, hissing, and darts away. Little shit. “I’m trying to help you,” I groan, studying the stinging split skin. I freeze when I hear footfalls coming down the hall toward the room. “It’s just Charlotte,” I rationalize, but I can’t move.
“Get under the bed and don’t come out.”
“It’s safe. You’re safe now.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Two black boots step into the room. That’s not Charlotte.
No. No. No.
This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Tears spring to my eyes. I grip the knife so tight, my knuckles turn white. I’d dropped the phone when I found the cat. Should I try to grab it and call the police? Will they make it in time?
I’m seven years old again. Fear burrows into my heart, eating away at it.
Fear is an illusion. You must overcome it.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a brief second. When I open them, a man is staring back at me. “Argh!” I cry out, swiping out with the knife.
“Whoa, what the hell you doing, crazy lady?” he shouts, jumping away.
Sliding out from beneath the bed, I hold the knife out toward him in a protective stance. “Stay back,” I warn.
Charlotte appears in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl on her face. “He lives next door, Liz. He has a key, feeds the cats while Lucile—” she emphasizes, “—is away on a business trip.” If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash right now.
“The knife?” the guys asks, hand out, a look of distrust on his face.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, handing him the knife and racing from the room.
When I get back to the kitchen, my eyes flash to the window. The black rose purposely posed there. “Did you put that flower there?” I ask the cat feeder. When he doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. He looks perplexed as he stares at the flower, like he can’t understand what it is. “Well?” I snap.
“No, and I left the window open to get rid of the smell in here.” The window is closed now.
“Maybe try emptying the trash,” Charlotte gags.
“I have. There’s no trash in here.” He looks back at her, then to the flower.
“Who else has a key?” I ask him, moving toward the flower. It’s perfect. Fresh. My finger swipes over the small stain on one of the petals. “There’s blood,” I croak.
“What?” they say in unison, their voices carrying across the space between us.
The heat of his body coming up behind me makes me shudder. “This is creepy. Please, can we leave?” Charlotte’s skin turns rapid white. A startled cry retches from her lips, ringing in my ears. Her shaky hand covers her mouth as she reaches out, pointing to the window. Me and Cat Guy look up at the same time. He balks, but I’m solidified. A silhouette of a man is in our window looking over at us. He’s tall and broad, too tall to be Charlotte’s date. His face is shrouded in darkness, but I feel the pressure of his gaze. “Who is that?” the cat feeder demands. Charlotte is already calling the police, but her words are just noise in my chaotic thoughts. Who the hell is toying with me? Is he Abigail’s killer? Is her murder my fault?
I take off running, pushing past Charlotte and out the door. I pounce
