“Jesus, fuck,” Posey says, falling out of his chair. “Satan.” He points toward the door.
Satan is right. What the actual fuck is this? Why is Taters still holding the door open? Does he not watch horror films at all? This is how people receive an axe to the skull, because they don’t slam the door.
The person flips their hood down and collectively we hold our breath while a timid voice says, “No, I swear I’m not a murderer.”
That’s a girl’s voice.
“Turn on the outside light, for fuck’s sake,” I say.
Taters flips on the light, and the girl’s face comes into view, but this is no girl.
Nope, our visitor is a woman with drenched blonde hair, scared eyes, and a perfectly heart-shaped face.
Shivering, she says, “I’m s-sorry to bother you, but my car got stuck in the mud. I saw the lights from the pool and followed them. Do you have any cell service?” The storm booms behind her, causing her to shrink even smaller.
“We don’t. Sorry.” Taters goes to shut the door, but Hornsby quickly stops him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Confused, Taters says, “Our phones aren’t working, and that’s what she’s looking for. Clearly, we don’t make a match.”
“Ask her if she wants to come inside, you idiot.”
Taters looks from the girl to Hornsby, and back again. “She could be a murderer.” He doesn’t bother keeping his voice down.
“She said she wasn’t,” Posey says while picking at the crumbs in the Chips Ahoy sleeve.
“So we’re just going to take her word for it?” Taters asks.
We all turn to the girl for confirmation. When she realizes we’re waiting, she stumbles out, “I’m not. I don’t do the murdering things. Hell, I don’t even know how to murder.”
Taters rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows how to murder.”
“I don’t know how to murder and get away with it,” she corrects herself.
Once again, Taters scoffs. “Please, everyone knows a woodchipper is a solid bet.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Just let her in.”
“What if she’s a psycho?” Taters asks. “You want a psycho in here?”
Chiming in, the girl says, “I promise I’m not a psycho. I was just hoping I could use your phone.”
“And like I said”—Taters does a dramatic pause as he turns to her again—“they aren’t working. So, sorry for the inconvenience, but you should be on your way.”
“Holy shit, dude, where the hell is your chivalry?” Hornsby asks, pushing Taters out of the way and holding the door open wider. “Excuse our friend. He’s an enneagram six. A stranger in his house is his worst nightmare.”
With understanding in her voice, she says, “My best friend is a six. I totally get it. I got her a Ring camera for her birthday and she told me it was the best gift she ever received.”
“Was it the Ring Doorbell Pro?” Taters asks, perking up. “Did you get her a spotlight as well? You know you can link them together.”
“Ignore him. Come in,” Hornsby says.
The girl doesn’t move. Instead, she scans the space. “I don’t want to bother you. Your phones aren’t working, so there really is no reason for me to be here.”
“Where are you going to go?” Hornsby asks.
“I don’t know, back to my car, I guess, to wait out the storm.”
“You’ll be waiting for a while.” Hornsby nods inside. “Seriously, we don’t mind.”
She glances around again, and when her eyes land on me, taking me in, I have a moment of déjà vu. She looks . . . familiar. “Not to sound rude or anything, but it seems as if you’re a bunch of big guys. I have nothing with me but my backpack, which despite my best friend begging me to fill it with self-defense items, is instead stuffed with snacks. I’m not sure I could trust you not to murder me.”
“You have snacks?” Taters asks, sounding more welcoming.
“I do,” she says skeptically, backing up.
“He’s not going to take them.” Hornsby pushes Taters completely away. “Ignore him. His blood sugar is low. And yes, we might be big and intimidating, but we aren’t murderers. We’re Agitators.”
She backs away again. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“Vancouver,” Hornsby clarifies.
But not an ounce of comprehension crosses her face, just nerves and uncertainty.