The Best Next Thing ((Un)Professionally Yours 1)

He should have been prepared for it, but the resonating crack that shook the paintings on the wall, made him jump. He swore again, before throwing back his shoulders and confidently striding down the hall toward the kitchen.

The sprawling house was built on one level. It had an underground garage— Miles preferred building down rather than up. His architect had argued that building a second floor would capitalize on the panoramic views, but Miles had been adamant. One level, and a basement, or he’d find a new architect. The kitchen and pantry divided the family’s sleeping and living areas from Mrs. Cole’s private rooms.

“Mrs. Cole?” Jesus, he sounded like a broken record but he hadn’t expected to find the kitchen empty. The next flash of lightning lit up the large room long enough for him to establish that Mrs. Cole was definitely not here. There were sliced vegetables abandoned on the counter next to the stove. The large knife she must have been using for the task was tossed to the side. She had clearly been in this room when the lights went out.

He turned to exit the kitchen back the way he had come but banged his knee against one of the stools at the island. His clumsiness sent the stool toppling with a loud crash that rattled him almost as much as the thunder that followed.

His phone chose that moment to die, and Miles froze on the spot.

The darkness was absolute and oppressive. He could feel it closing in around him. The air was thick and stifling. His breathing sped up and he was embarrassed by the short harsh gasps rasping from his throat.

Disoriented, Miles stood—helplessly adrift—in the kitchen. Because he had been in the process of turning when he’d knocked over the stool, he wasn’t quite sure where the island was, or where the stool had fallen, or even where the doorway to the hall was right now—although he was certain that it was directly behind him. And he hated the idea of having his back to that cavernous black hall.

He shoved his phone into his rear trouser pocket for safekeeping and tried to figure out what his next move should be. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. And he was able to identify shapes in the darkness within moments. He remained unnerved by the blackness though. Especially with the accompanying discordant symphony of the violent storm raging right above them.

The wind was increasing, the rain intensifying—although it had stopped hailing—he could hear the faintly ominous ticking and scraping of branches on the kitchen window. The branches belonged to the giant old yellowwood tree that offered such welcome shade in the summer. He’d had no idea the damned thing was so close to the kitchen window. He was surprised Amos hadn’t trimmed back the branches yet. Miles would speak to him about it in—

What the fuck was that?

A low, howling sound…coming from the back door that led out to the garden. It was faint, but it was noticeable because it was anomalous. It didn’t fit in with any of the normal storm sounds. It sounded like an animal.

Miles swallowed and leaned toward the sound, trying to hear it more clearly over the whistling wind. The howl had lapsed into whining. It was insistent and urgent. And… Jesus, accompanied by faint, scratching sounds. Someone or something was trying their damnedest to get into the house.

Coming down to the basement garage during a blackout always made the hairs on the back of Charity’s neck stand up. And tonight, was no exception. Well, it was decidedly worse thanks to the frightening violence of the storm. They rarely had weather-related blackouts, but this storm had been touted as the worst in ten years and, sure enough, the lights had flickered out with the first lightning strike. If the dramatic display of sparks outside the kitchen window was anything to go by, the lightning must have struck the transformer. Mercifully this particular storm was accompanied by torrential rain.

Several years ago, in severe drought conditions, a similar storm—without the rain—had resulted in raging wildfires that had ravaged the surrounding area. Fanned by gale force winds, the fire had decimated over a thousand homes in Knysna, destroyed sixteen thousand hectares of fynbos and forestry, ravaged the wildlife and—tragically—killed seven people. It had been terrifying. Charity and the citizens of Riversend had been on high alert, waiting to he

ar if they would have to evacuate. But the fire—one of the worst in South Africa’s history—had been contained before it came to that. They had been fortunate. Eight thousand others had been forced to abandon their homes in terror.

It had brought home how alone she and Amos were out there. George had offered to stay with her in case they needed to evacuate. But because she knew he would prefer to stay close to Nina, Charity had assured him they were fine, and she would drive them out if need be. Even though the prospect had terrified her. She had seen harrowing clips on the news of people driving through burning forests. The fire had spread so quickly. She couldn’t imagine being forced to drive through something like that.

She shook her head, disgusted with herself for allowing these grim thoughts to creep in and unsettle her. She focused on the immediate problem—she needed to switch on the generator. She would hate for her boss to wake up to a dark and cold house. The light from her handheld searchlight bounced off the wall, creating unsettling shadows as she walked toward the state-of-the-art generator that Mi—Mr. Hollingsworth—had installed a few years ago.

The rain sounded louder down here, lashing against the high, narrow windows and drumming against the garage doors. She didn’t like it, it sounded like something ferocious and powerful was battling to get inside.

The wind tossed something substantial against the garage doors, and the loud bang cemented her feet to the polished concrete floor. It sounded like someone’s angry fist thumping furiously against the metal.

“Charity, open this fucking door!”

The harsh, familiar male voice seemed to echo around the cavernous garage, and Charity’s chest heaved as she found herself fighting for breath. For a horrifying second the voice seemed so real, so close; she instinctively went into a crouch and covered her head with her arms.

Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!

He’s not here. He’s not.

She counted: Ten, nine, otto, sett, roku, go, quatre, trois, zwei, eins…

Again. Her breathing regulated, her heartbeat slowed, and she gradually—sheepishly—lowered her arms and unfurled her body. She picked up the searchlight from where she had placed it on the floor and swallowed heavily. God, nights like these always brought out the worst of it.

She shook herself and resumed her walk to the generator. As she reached for the switch, she heard a clatter from upstairs and froze again. Her breath snagged in her chest.

Oh God…what was that? That hadn’t been one of her imagined threats, that had been real and—

Crap! He must be awake. And walking into the furniture, if the noise was any indication. Feeling silly and a little guilty for dallying down there when the man was floundering his way around in the dark, she flipped the switch and the generator sputtered to life with a whir. It took a second before the light flickered on, accompanied by the beeps and buzzes of various appliances coming back to life.

She hastened her way back to the stairs leading to the kitchen door, hoping her boss hadn’t damaged himself or the house too badly in the dark.

When the room lit up again—so brightly it hurt his eyes—Miles thought it was lightning and braced himself for the thunder that would shortly follow…but the light stayed on, and Miles blinked a couple of times as he tried to figure out what was going on. A door opened to his left, and he swiveled toward it. His senses still heightened, and his reactions on a hair trigger. He belatedly recognized it as the door leading to the basement garage and the tall, familiar figure of Mrs. Cole stepped through it a moment later.