Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

“No. No. No.” I raise my hand to beat at the window. Someone grabs me before I can do it. Her arms pull me back from the glass a few inches.

My mother. My mother’s arms, around me. I fight against her, trying to reach the window. “Quiet,” she urges. “Honey. Be quiet. I’m begging you. We need to go.”

“They’re hurting him.”

A shout makes it through the pane of glass, and then a flash of light.

A flash like fire.

My father’s body falls to the ground. None of the men move to catch him. The man with the gun stands over him, aiming it at him.

They shot my dad.

They shot him.

He’s bleeding—

My mom takes advantage of my shock and pulls me through the living room. She’s dragging me now, up the stairs. I can’t catch my breath. I saw that gun. I saw him die. I saw him fall. The image repeats again and again and again. We go up and up. Mom wrenches open a narrow door at the end of the hall. My elbow hits the frame as we go through. She pushes me in front of her. A pounding at the door down on the first floor matches my heart. Her face gets close. “Stay quiet,” she says. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t make any noise. Quiet.”

The door closes behind her.

I’m alone.

They hurt my father.

Killed him. He’s not going to get up. A low voice gets closer. Sweat gathers on the back of my neck. The attic room is shapeless. It’s blowing away in the wind. It’s not carpet against my palm, but sheets.

Sheets.

I’m in bed.

I push myself upright, out of the dream. I’m in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. It wasn’t real. Just a dream. A horrible one, made out of a real memory. God, I hate that. I hate that the only time I see my father is in dreams about his death. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. Another memory. I need something else to think about. The way his voice sounded, but I can’t quite remember it. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. Of course I haven’t forgotten. I remember. I remember. And if I don’t remember that, I remember how it felt to hold his hand when we crossed the street. He had—he had big hands. Callused. But he never held mine too tightly.

The voice filters through the wall again.

It’s getting closer. I pull the sheet over my lap and scramble toward the wall. They’re here—they found me in the attic. All these years of hiding and they found me behind that same locked door. It was all for nothing if they’ve found me. All my mother’s sacrifices. All the times I stayed quiet and didn’t scream, even though I wanted to. Even though my heart was being torn from my chest.

Those men weren’t familiar, though. They were strangers. And this voice sounds familiar. I swallow a cry for help and force myself to listen.

It’s Sam.

It’s just Sam, that’s all. Sam, the mysterious guest at my inn.

I sag against the wall with relief. My heartbeat begins to settle down. It was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. Thank God it’s him. Nobody else is in here with me. We’re safe.

My pulse slows.

His voice gets clearer. There’s a soft creak, like he’s pacing the floor. People don’t pace around unless they’re agitated about something. There’s nothing to be upset about today. We had a picnic. We went to bed together. That’s all.

“No,” he says.

Is he talking to himself? It doesn’t sound like it. But it’s the middle of the night. Too late for a phone call. I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping on my guests. I can’t help it this time. All’s quiet in the inn, which means his voice is clear.

“Yes, I’ve searched.”

My stomach drops. He told me that he went into the workroom out of habit. Because his work had made him into the kind of person who couldn’t resist a search or a secret. Telling another person that he’s done the work makes it sound like something else entirely.

It makes it sound like a job.

It sounds like a job that a CIA agent with a gun in a duffel bag and a fake ID might do.

And those kinds of jobs—

They don’t end with people walking away. They end with people getting hurt. Oh, shit. Is that what he was trying to tell me before? I got caught up in how sexy he is and how much I wanted his hands on me, and I didn’t listen. He told me. He said he’d hurt me. That’s what I do. Oh, God.

I hold my breath. I can’t afford to miss a single word of this conversation. Staying quiet right now might save my life the way it did all those years ago. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I kept myself alive for so long. This can’t be how it ends.