Reaching my hand out, I try to shut the window, but the lock won’t click no matter how hard I push.
I’ll have to get that fixed. For now, I grab some duct tape and fix it over the window, taping it up like I’m sealing off the house for fumigation.
I really should call the police, but maybe it was me that left the window open. Why would anyone break-in? I have nothing of value.
Before I can think better of it, I bolt up the stairs to my bedroom, needing to double-check nothing is missing.
Once in my room, I take stock of the space.
My heart pounds. I glance around.
I let out a long, audible sigh. Again, nothing is out of place. I approach my desk next, slowly. Nope. All the papers are still in their usual spot.
But the lid of my laptop is open.
Did I leave it open?
I can’t remember. Why is it you can never remember anything when you need to? But I think I closed it this morning.
I must have
Right?
The following week goes by, and I never find anything out of the ordinary in my house. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Even this morning, it felt like I was being watched on my walk to school.
An unspoken presence floats over me like a spooky ghost. That, coupled with the endless wrong phone calls I keep getting . . . it’s starting to feel like I’m in a bad ’80s horror flick. I’ve been cast as the idiot girl, walking into the dark house, ready to be murdered.
Every morning, like clockwork, my phone rings, but there’s never anyone there.
It’s making me angry.
Today, a song played. Which was creepy as hell.
A thought hits me.
Shit.
Is this Trent Aldridge?
I’ve waited months for him to show back up in my life. Every day that passed, I expected the call from Mr. Baker, informing me Ronald’s family is taking me to court.
Are the calls from him?
Did he break into my house?
No.
That’s ridiculous.
He wouldn’t get his hands dirty.
Unless . . . this is part of a bigger plan.
But what can that plan be?
To make me look unhinged?
If he’s as smart as I think he is, this goes beyond scaring me. That’s too juvenile. If I go to the cops, looking as paranoid as I do, I become the unhinged lunatic in their eyes, just in time for Trent to serve me with papers. It’s a damn good way to ruin my character. It also pushes me into a corner.
No cops.
No reprieve.
I’m out of options.
When I take a seat in my chair in the classroom, Heather is already there.
“Any word yet from the dickbag?” Heather asks. After the showdown in the lawyer’s office, I mentioned that I was scared he would be a thorn in my side. I didn’t go into details because I don’t want to drag her into this mess with me.
Every day that has since passed, we started class with a mini-meltdown. She pries me for info while I give vague answers, unsure whether Trent Aldridge would stoop so low as to come after my friend.
“Well?” Heather follows up, watching as I take out my laptop for notes. A gift from Ronnie.
The answer is no. I haven’t heard a word from Trent or Mr. Baker in over two months.
What does that mean for me?
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m getting nervous.
Too much time has passed.
It feels like one shoe has dropped down on me, and I’m waiting for the other one to hit me in the head. With my luck, it’ll crash down, weighing a million pounds, and cause a nuclear fallout in destruction.
Yep. That’s me. Forever the optimist. Watch out for my TED talk.
“Come on, Payton.” Heather edges closer. “You’re killing me here.”
I sigh, finally bringing myself to answer. “It’s kind of crazy, but I still haven’t heard anything.”
The muscles in my body hurt. Too tight for comfort.
Sitting with my friend should relax me, but I can’t help the tension in my back. It’s been there for the past couple of months. I’m a hot mess of distress. A punchline for a bad joke.
I walk around looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to approach.
I’m so uptight it’s like I’m a piece of glass, bound to smash to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Then what’s the problem?” Heather nudges my shoulder. “That’s a good thing, right? Why the scowl on your face?”
Lifting my hands to my eyes, I scrub away the exhaustion. “That’s the problem,” I admit, lowering my arms back down in my lap.
“That you haven’t heard?”
I nod.
“That has to be a good thing. If something were to go down, it would have already, right?”
My teeth lower, biting my lip. “No. It’s not a good thing. The longer I wait for his next move, the sicker I get over it. I feel like someone is fucking with me. Or at least, I can’t be too sure it’s not the case.”