Who was the man on the water’s edge?
What does it mean that I found Michael’s buffalo nickel in the exact spot he was standing?
When did I decide it was reasonable to have a pen pal in prison?
Where can I locate my brain?
And finally, why did Aidan leave without saying goodbye?
Because that’s exactly what happened. After walking out in the middle of our conversation, he climbed a ladder up to my roof, draped a blue waterproof tarp over one section of it, pulled out some wet insulation from the attic, then roared off into the darkness in his big macho truck as if the woman he fucked to within an inch of her life the night before wasn’t inside waiting for him.
I really don’t understand men.
Dealing with men is like dealing with a hostile alien species who crash-landed on the planet and decided our language and customs are too silly to be bothered with, and henceforth we should be treated with mild disdain and/or as objects of occasional sexual release before being ignored as inferior beings again.
I do feel better having the alarm, however, so that’s one positive thing.
The little green light on the hub glows cheerfully at me from the wall by the door, reminding me that if nothing else, I can have the cops here in under ten minutes if I forget to disable the alarm.
Or if someone breaks in to try to murder me, but I’m not thinking about that.
I fold the letter to Dante into thirds and slip it in an envelope. I place it in the top drawer of my desk, thinking I’ll decide if I want to mail it or not in the morning. Then I drop heavily into the desk chair and absent mindedly rub the buffalo nickel between two fingers as I stare at the closed drapes, deep in thought.
Until directly above my head in the master bedroom, a floorboard creaks.
I freeze, staring up at the ceiling. When nothing else happens after several excruciating seconds, I glance nervously at the security hub on the wall.
The green light glows reassuringly back at me.
I relax for two seconds until another floorboard creaks overhead, then another, and I break out in a cold sweat.
“It’s the wind,” I whisper, gripping the arms of my chair and hyperventilating. “It’s only the wind.”
My brain decides to wake up from its recent coma to remind me that my ears can’t hear a breath of wind stirring outside the windows.
I counter with the indisputable fact that no one could possibly be in the house as I locked all the doors and armed the security system before I went to bed.
My brain—the asshole—suggests with no regard to my emotional well-being that perhaps whomever is making that noise upstairs was already in the house before then.
Fuck.
“Keep it together, Kayla,” I whisper as my hands begin to shake. “Nobody is in the house except you.”
When the silence above my head continues for the next five minutes, I decide I’m not scared anymore. I’m mad.
At myself.
Because if I’d heard another creak, I have no doubt I’d have leapt from the chair and run screaming out the front door, only to make another surprise appearance at Aidan’s apartment, making a complete fool of myself once again.
Armed with my new anger, I take a breath and go to the door.
I’m fine when I step outside the office and look around. I’m fine as I creep up the stairs and peer into the master bedroom, which is exactly as I left it, no floorboard-creaking intruders in sight. I’m also fine as I check all the upstairs rooms, flipping lights on and feeling more and more ridiculous with every passing second when I find nothing out of place.
It isn’t until I go back downstairs, step into the kitchen, and turn on the overhead lights that I go from fine to freaking the fuck out.
Every drawer is pulled all the way out. Every cupboard door stands wide open.
I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle my terrified scream.
I stand frozen, listening to my pulse roar in my ears. Adrenaline burns through my veins, urging me to run, but I’m rooted to the floor in fright. I can’t move a muscle.
The eerie sense that I’m being watched slowly creeps over me.
I almost sob in terror. But I manage to hold it together and turn to see if someone is behind me.
But there’s no one there. I’m alone.
Just me, my paranoia, and the drawers and cupboards, which all apparently have over-greased rails and hinges.
Because there’s no other explanation for this. Because the kitchen just doesn’t decide to fling things open on its own.
Except maybe it does, because out of nowhere, a jar of honey flies off a shelf and smashes to pieces in the middle of the kitchen floor.