Two years ago. Almost to the day. He’d come to install a new thermostat, or so he’d said. She’d been in her second year at the local community college, a single woman living alone in a refurbished home-turned-apartment.
It was the affordability of the small, older home, and attractiveness of the clay-tiled roof and creamy stucco walls, that had cinched the deal for her. The house itself was immaculate; boasted two up, two down. Her studio apartment had been at the rear of the second level, overlooking the back lawn turned into a parking lot. She could’ve seen the college dorms from her bedroom window, if she’d stood on a stool. Her only other window had faced the side of the neighboring house. Not much to see there.
She’d been between roommates. Her first mistake…
She’d known the instant he’d shut the door behind him and stood staring at her without saying anything that he’d lied. It was in the way he’d spread his legs and crossed his arms over his narrow chest, blocking her exit. The way his bag of tools dropped to the floor, like he’d never needed them. Because he didn’t. They were just props. His way in.
He wasn’t bad-looking, but neither was he particularly good-looking. Ordinary. Nondescript. Short. Light-brown hair combed straight back. No facial hair, acne, piercings, scars, glasses, or visible tattoos. Khaki shirt and matching pants. Nothing in his appearance labeled him cruel or frightening. If anything, he was the definition of bland, two short sticks on a chunk of walking oatmeal.
His eyes were what she remembered. They were the lightest gray, almost bluish silver, like two puffs of frozen breath in winter. Like cigarette smoke, the promise of death when inhaled. Lethal, if it touched you.
Ashley had run to her kitchen and grabbed her one and only steak knife from the dish strainer beside the sink. He was on her by then, had one hard arm crooked around her neck and a fist full of her hair. He’d jerked her back against his front and slapped the knife out of her hand. She’d sucked in a panicked breath to scream. But he’d clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth, rubbed his nose into her cheek, and asked the words that haunted her, “Wanna play, little girl?”
“No!” she told her nightmare, fighting to keep him out of her head. “I didn’t want to play then. I don’t want to play now.” Out of habit, her right hand skimmed her thigh, missing her messenger bag. Swallowing hard, she began to run. Her simple black walking shoes slipped on the soggy, wet leaves that, just moments ago, had made the night beautiful. She nearly fell but spread her arms in time and righted herself.
The memory rolled on.
He’d shoved her to the floor and punched her when she’d cried out. He’d caged her under his smelly, unwashed body, locked between his knees, on the floor beside her daybed. He’d just sliced the buttons off her shirt and used her knife to do that. He’d straddled her hips, had spread her shirt open, drooling down on her like a pig. She’d been hysterical and crying, staring up into those ghostly, unfeeling eyes, her arms trapped at her sides. He’d licked his lips. Then reached behind his back and produced a long thin blade. A fillet knife.
Ashley had freaked. She’d managed one short squawk before her intruder slammed his dirty, sweaty hand over her mouth again. He forced her chin up and pressed the knife into the soft skin under her jaw. “Bet you wanna play with me now,” he’d told her, his pupils bigger and blacker. “But you’re like the others, dirty and proud of it. Skanks who think you can rule the world.”
That was when Mac, the real maintenance man, had pounded at her front door and called out, “Hey, Ashley! It’s me, Mac. I’m here to replace your thermostat like we planned. Just finished old man Toone’s. You’re gonna like it. It’s easy to program. Even I can do it, and it comes with a remote.”
Her attacker had glanced over his shoulder at the door, momentarily distracted. Desperately, carefully, she’d snaked one arm up from her side.
The creep turned back to her and hissed, “Mac likes you and you like him. You’ll play with him, but not me.”
She’d blinked hard then, trying to recall if she’d ever seen this guy before. Had they ever met?
Mac knocked again. Louder. “Open up, young lady. Time’s a-wasting!”
Her killer was antsy by then. “Make one sound and I’ll kill your fuck buddy!”
Frightened out of her mind, Ashley had grabbed his free hand and bit his thumb. Hard! As long as she could stand the dirty thing inside her mouth. Until he’d slammed his other fist into her forehead, and she’d thought her brain exploded.
“You can’t get away from me,” he’d hissed. Like the sick dog he was, he’d trapped her arm again, then dropped his nose into the corner of her neck where it joined her shoulder. He’d stuck the flat of his nasty tongue on her skin and licked a long, wet trail up her neck, onto her cheek, and into her hair.
She’d been dizzy, sure she was going to die. Closing her eyes, she’d cringed under the vile assault, too afraid of the knife to call out to Mac or bite again or—do anything. He’d sniffed her, licked her, his other hand still plastered over her mouth, and her heart climbing up her throat.
By then, he’d cut her, up high, under her chin. He’d hit her again. Punched her face. Her mouth, nose, and neck were bleeding. But Mac’s arrival must’ve spooked him. That was the only way she could explain why he’d suddenly jumped to his feet, grabbed his bag, and ran out her front door.
By then, Mac was gone. So was the creep. He’d even taken his fake tool bag.
Ashley had locked herself
