She doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Even if she makes a fuss, she doubts Sibley will hear her in time to make it back to the house.
Deborah can’t fathom why a man would make himself at home in front of the television in a stranger’s house. Surely this isn’t what these crooks are doing when they ransack homes: settling in to watch old reruns of black-and-white movies. Though not much would surprise her anymore.
Maybe the man’s ploy is to make himself a guest in people’s homes so they let their guard down. To her, he looks like an older gentleman in a commercial selling car insurance, harmless and neighborly. The kind who waves when you drive by or brings you a thoughtful gift on holidays. This could be how he’s skirted any type of suspicion; he’s just so normal looking.
Before her presence is noticed, Deborah moves a couple steps back, keeping her body turned toward the room and him. This way, if he stands, she’ll see him coming. She can make it to the kitchen and the front door without going through the living room.
That is, if she doesn’t make a peep. In the hallway, she removes her tennis shoes to keep the sound down, since her socks will make less noise on the old hardwood floors and linoleum.
Once she reaches the kitchen, the divided entryway is visible to the living room, so she’ll have to risk being seen for a few steps.
Taking a deep breath, she’s about to make a run for it when a shrill buzzing drowns the television’s sound.
Startled, she almost has a heart attack until she realizes it’s the phone ringing.
Fear grips her body in its clutch, and for a moment she stands deathly quiet, waiting for a sign.
Deborah wonders if the intruder will answer or yank the phone out of the wall. Holding her breath, lungs filled to maximum capacity, she scurries past, refusing to look in the direction of the man seated in the living room.
After closing the door softly so it doesn’t slam, she staggers down the steps.
CHAPTER 36
Sibley
When I pull into the drive, I almost crash into the garage in fright as a figure unexpectedly darts out from behind the structure.
It’s Deborah, and her face is peaked, like she just saw a ghost. Her whole body’s trembling, even in the eighty-degree heat.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I edge the vehicle off the drive, trampling the weeds and shrubs that have popped up as I park next to the garage. I’m more confused when she runs through the brush barefoot toward my car.
As I cut the engine, she yanks on the passenger-door handle and throws herself into the seat before the door’s even shut.
I’m deathly afraid of snakes, and at first, I think she spotted one in the garage, taking cover in the dimly lit and dusty area. Imagining one slithering over my foot, I involuntarily shudder.
Her hand grips my elbow and shakes my arm. It appears I’m supposed to be clued into how she’s feeling.
Examining her striped socks, I ask, “Where are your shoes?”
“I took them off so I could tiptoe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . there’s . . .” She launches into a stream of unintelligible words.
“Oh my God.” I signal her to stop talking. “Where’s the snake?”
“What snake?” Breathless, she shakes her head. “No, no, no. There’s a man”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“in the house.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Floored, I shriek, “A strange man is in the house?”
Initially, I think she’s messing with me, and I wait for her to crack a smile. Instead, she cowers in fear.
Distraught, I yelp, “Is it the man that hurt you?”
“No,” she says tersely. “This one is older. Older than me.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s wearing regular clothes, no mask. I was going through my closet, and when I walked out, there he was.” She groans. “He’s sitting in your daddy’s old recliner, watching TV.” She throws her hands in the air. “Can you believe it? Television!”
“So you don’t think it’s related to one of the robberies your neighbors had?”
“I don’t know.” My mother’s twisting her cross pendant tight enough I’m worried she’s about to choke herself. “He wasn’t searching around or anything. Just sitting. I can’t imagine I’d have anything they would want.”
“It’s not the pastor or the man you’re dating?” I ask. “Does he have a key?”
“No. But the door wasn’t locked.” She looks apprehensively toward the house. “We should call someone or the police. Maybe get Miles over here. That’ll be faster.”
“What about your security camera?” I ask. “I’m sure there will be a recording of him entering the house.” Another thought strikes me. “Could he be lost?” I wonder. “Maybe have dementia and have wandered away from a nursing home?”
“I don’t know.” She dejectedly sighs. “I guess I never thought of that.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mother. We can try safety in numbers,” I say. “Go inside and ask if he needs help.”
“Maybe we should call someone first.”
“And leave him inside?” I demur. “No. Not a chance. He might be spooked if he’s lost.”
“I don’t want you going inside. I have no idea if he’s armed.”
“Where’s Daddy’s rifle?”
“It’s missing. My attacker took it,” she whispers. “It never showed up.”
“Wait—that’s the rifle they hit you with, that old Winchester?” My jaw drops. “I took a gun down to the station that I thought might’ve been used in your attack.”
Her face turns ashen. “Where did you find it?”
“In the barn.”
“You weren’t at the pond?”
“No.” Bewildered, I gawk at her. “Why would I have gone to the pond? I said I was in the barn.”
She asks me to describe it, and her face blanches at my description. She’s acting like I committed a heinous felony, and I’m disturbed at her reaction, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss.
“Can we
