The last thing I need is some dumb kid breaking his leg on a rock he tripped over on my property. I can see the lawsuit coming a mile away.
I spend another fifteen minutes hunting for him, then give up and go back inside for more wine. Then I get the idea to review the camera feed from the last half hour to see where little blondie went.
But when I open the app, all I get is static. The screen shows nothing but pixelated snow.
Great. The security system works as well as the electrical system. Maybe I should just sell the place and move.
Feeling defeated, I go back to my desk and work for the rest of the day.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of the alarm screaming.
Disoriented, I jolt upright in bed and look around in panic. Gray daylight sifts through the cracks in the curtains. My robe is where I left it, draped over the arm of a chair. Nothing in the room appears to be out of order, except for the ear-piercing shriek of the security alarm.
In my panic, I fall out of bed. I hit the floor with a thud but scramble to my feet, adrenaline burning through my veins.
Someone broke into the house.
Fuck fuck fuck oh holy fuck someone broke into the house!
The noise cuts off as abruptly as it began, leaving my ears ringing with the silence.
Hyperventilating, I move quietly to the door, open it a crack, and listen. Within moments, I hear a female voice grouse, “Blasted thing. What a bloody racket. I’ll go deaf, and that’s a fact.”
I nearly faint with relief. It’s Fiona.
Throwing open the door, I walk down the hall and lean over the balcony that overlooks the first floor. “Fiona! It’s you!”
She screams and jumps, whirling around. Gazing up at me from the foyer, she presses a hand over her heart.
Looking cross, she says, “It’s ten o’clock Monday morning, dear. Of course it’s me.”
“Ten o’clock?” I repeat, astonished. I can’t believe I slept this late, but get distracted from that thought when another occurs to me. “How did you know how to turn off the alarm?”
A strange pause follows. It seems fraught. “I entered the code.”
“How did you know what code to enter?”
Another strange pause follows. She asks hesitantly, “How do you think I know it?”
Oh shit. I told her the code, that’s how she knows it. I told her and forgot.
I pass a hand over my face and exhale. “Because I gave it to you. Of course I did. Sorry.”
When I look at her again, she appears relieved.
“No need to apologize.”
A clap of thunder rumbles through the sky. The gray morning is about to erupt into rain again. And whatever this creeping memory loss is of mine, it seems to be accelerating.
“Are you quite well, dear?” asks Fiona, tilting her head and peering at me with an expression of concern.
After a moment, I say, “No. I don’t think I am. I don’t think I’m well at all.”
She nods, as if she already knows my condition is poor but didn’t want to say anything and risk offending me. She sets her bags on the floor next to the console table, shrugs out of her woolen jacket, unwinds the scarf around her neck, lays both on the console, then looks back up at me.
In a kind tone, she says, “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen and have a cup of tea and a chat?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turns and walks away.
Feeling queasy, I go downstairs. I find her in the kitchen, setting a teapot on the stove. She lights the burner, then sits down at the table and folds her hands together on top. Chewing on a thumbnail, I take the chair across from her.
I think she’s going to ask me about my health or suggest I take a nice vacation in the nearest mental institution, but she surprises me by saying gently, “I’ve always liked you, Kayla. You’re a bright, gifted young woman.”
Flattered but also taken aback, I say, “Well, thank you. I’ve always liked you, too.”
She smiles and nods in a grandmotherly way.
I look askance at her. “Why do I feel like there’s more coming?”
“Because there is. And I want you to remember that this comes from a place of concern for you and your well-being.”
I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands. “I know. I’m a mess. Believe me, I’m aware.”
“I don’t think you’re a mess. I think…”
When she pauses too long, I glance up at her, nervous. On her face is a curious expression. It’s part concern, but mostly anticipation. At least I think that’s what it is. She’s staring at me with a weird light in her eyes, like a person with a gambling addiction looks at a slot machine.