Beach Thriller(13)

With one quick upward motion, I grab the bristled end of the broom like it’s the hair of a girl in lockup.

I yank my arms back, pulling the weapon from Broom-Hilda’s grasp. Once it’s safely in my possession, I flip it around so that the bristles point straight at my adversary. She raises her hands and steps back, like the broom’s a loaded gun.

“Come on, I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, inching out from my hiding spot behind the bookcase.

My assurances don’t have the desired effect. Broom-Hilda’s nostrils flare as she casts a worried glance over my shoulder, maybe fearing that I have an accomplice.

I wish I hadn’t made this poor woman tremble.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I repeat, dropping the broom.

Standing in the light, she can now see that I’m not a creepy dude who’s been lurking in her home. She is genuinely surprised, and relieved, to see that I’m a girl. Her eyes have softened—most of her fear has ebbed, but she’s still on guard.

She holds her ground, eyeing me warily.

“Who are you? What do you want?” She still has her hands up, even though I’m not pointing anything at her.

“My name is Jade Jensen,” I say in a calm tone, “and I am truly sorry that I broke into your house, but I had no choice.”

Her eyes narrow, assessing me in a way I know all too well.

“How long have you been hiding here?” she asks.

“Um—” I’m not exactly sure. “Hard to say,” I tell her, grimacing. “A week and a half, maybe two? When you squat in an empty house, time kind of gets away from you.” I laugh, attempting to lighten the mood.

“You’ve been living in this house for that long? And while I’ve been here?” She looks both horrified and amazed.

I offer a shameful smile. “Guilty as charged,” I reply. “I stayed downstairs at first, but when the boards came down, I moved up to the attic. I figured somebody might show up, and I was right.

“I was sure I was going to get busted the way that nosy blond bitch was snooping around. How pushy was she? Lucky for me, the attic isn’t a selling point.”

“I didn’t see any sign of forced entry. How’d you get in here?”

I clear my throat to make way for my confession. “I cut up a plastic Coke bottle, slid the shim between the doorjamb and the metal latch, and voilà, I was in. If you get the lock changed, remind the locksmith to push in the deadlocking plunger.” I shrug sheepishly. The lady doesn’t look impressed.

“Where on earth did you learn that?”

I’m not about to tell her the truth, so I blurt out the first lie that comes to me. “The internet.”

“Right.” She shakes her head in dismay. “How could I have no idea that you were here?” she asks, bewildered. “I thought you were a family of squirrels or something.”

“You also thought I was a ghost—and that psychic … hope you didn’t pay her much.”

Sadness fills her eyes. “I didn’t see a trace of you anywhere. And where have you been peeing? The water wasn’t even on.”

“It’s easy to sneak into the YMCA to use the bathroom. And they have showers. Also, I’m pretty good at covering my tracks.” I stand taller, a little proud of myself. “Slept on the couch most of the time until I moved up here. Kept my bag packed in case I had to make a run for it.”

“And food?”

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing there weren’t squirrels living up here, or, well—you know, desperate times, desperate measures.”

She looks sorry for me. I hope that means she’s not going to rush to call the cops.

“And it’s only you? There’s nobody else up here?” Her voice wavers.

“I swear—it’s just me.”

I think she believes my story, even though she’s still jittery.

“Look, let me explain a little more,” I say. “It’s not what you think. I’m not going to rob you or hurt you or anything like that. I just needed a place to crash, somewhere warm, dry, and safe. I really didn’t think anyone lived here. I kind of thought I’d struck gold.”

She appraises me anew, cocking her head to one side like she’s now more perplexed than frightened.

“Where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania,” I tell her. “Outside of Philly.”

“Philadelphia?” she repeats. “You’re far from home.”

“Not far enough,” I mutter.

A pale clamminess crawls across my skin. I need a place to stay, and right now I’m not getting generous vibes from my host.

“My parents died.” My voice chokes with emotion. When I think of them, it’s still raw. Everything that happened, it’s all too painful. “They were in a car accident on I-95 about two miles from our house in Bristol—a drunk driver going the wrong way. They were coming back from dinner with friends. It was instant, that’s what the police told me, but almost every night, I still have dreams about it. I saw photos of the wreckage…”

Tears well in the corners of my eyes. “I wasn’t the easiest kid,” I admit. “I caused a lot of trouble and put them through a lot. Spent some time in juvenile detention—” I pause because I feel I need to come clean about my earlier lie. “That’s actually where I learned how to pick locks with a Coke bottle—in juvie.”