The Best Next Thing

“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.

Her head was bowed, her focus on the magnificent, heavy duty searchlight in her hands—no pussy phone flashlight for her—and she didn’t immediately notice him.

“Where were you?” Okay, so maybe his question sounded more than a little accusatory, and her head snapped up in surprise.

“Mr. Hollingsworth, are you alright?”

“Of course, I’m alright,” he snapped, then felt like an arsehole. “Sorry, just on edge. I wasn’t sure where you were.”

“I had to switch on the generator. It doesn’t automatically kick in when the power goes out.”

Of course! The generator. Miles had forgotten about the expensive generator. He’d had it installed a couple of years ago because the series of regulated, rolling blackouts, implemented by the national power company, had become all too commonplace.

“I’m sorry, I should have anticipated a power failure and left a flashlight in your room.”

“I had my phone,” Miles said, then grimaced before admitting, “it died. What the bloody hell is that?”

The question confused Charity, and she stared at him in puzzlement. He appeared uncharacteristically frazzled. His hair was standing up in tufts, he must have slept in his clothes because they were wrinkled and in disarray. His eyes looked wild and, if it didn’t seem so implausible, Charity would think he had been slightly freaked out by the dark.

Now—after that sharp question—he was glaring at the back door almost resentfully and stalked toward it. She bent to right the upended bar stool that had probably been the source of the noise she had heard earlier, before following him cautiously, uncertain of his unpredictable mood.

He stopped at the door and put his ear to the wood.

“Do you hear that?”

Charity tilted her head, trying to hear what he was hearing.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what—”

“There!”

She shut her mouth at his interruption and then frowned, listening more closely. She moved nearer to the door, now able to hear the strange moaning noises he was referring to.

“That’s odd, right?” he asked, his penetrating gaze bore into her eyes.

“It’s unusual,” she acknowledged, and crept even closer until she was standing almost right beside him. She was acutely aware of—and very uncomfortable with—his proximity and was about to take a side step to allow for more space between them, when the moaning started up again. Louder and more insistent this time.

Miles—Mr. Hollingsworth—reached for the lock, and Charity’s breath snagged.

“No, wait,” she whispered. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

“Only one way to find out,” he stated, looking grim.

“What if it’s a wild animal? Amos spotted a troop of baboons in the area not too long ago. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with baboons, we had a nasty encounter with one that broke into the kitchen last winter. It was aggressive and terrifying. Even animal control had trouble subduing him.”