I will hide. I will flee.
Making that choice takes about three seconds. Even during that, I don’t stand gaping at the bedroom door. Either way—confront or flee—I need to start by hiding, and I’ve been doing that as I work it through.
The room contains a bed and a wardrobe. That’s it. No closet—wardrobes fill that function in this world. Getting under the bed would trap me. Even hunkering behind it puts me at a disadvantage. So I plaster myself to the wall beside the wardrobe and listen.
I listen for footsteps that don’t come.
My alert definitely sounded. That door creaked open, too. I thought I caught a footfall or two. Then nothing.
Did the imposter find the trigger? It was a simple setup. Door opens, hinge gap widens, a nail thumps to the floor. If the person hears and finds it, they’ll think it’s just a nail that fell out. Nothing unusual there.
Is he trying to figure out where it fell from? Please don’t play Mr. Handyman. Be the kind of renter I was, who’d set the nail aside and text the landlord to let them know I found it.
Is a man more likely to try fixing it himself? My dad would, despite the fact that Mom’s the one who knows where they keep the hammer and how to use it.
The other possibility? That Findlay realizes it’s an alert. Or that he had some junior-detective alert of his own rigged up, to let him know if someone entered his apartment.
I take out my knife. I don’t open it. I stand there, holding it, and cursing myself for not having a different weapon. Knives are messy. It’ll work if I need to just scare him as I flee, but if I’m forced to do more…?
I won’t be forced to do more. I’ve got this. I just need to get past him.
Damn it, why couldn’t he have come home when I was in the kitchen or living room? Someplace where I’d have awayto get past him. There’s a window here, but I’m not foolish enough to think I can climb up there and squeeze through before he walks in.
One way out. The door. Which is on the other side of Findlay.
I hold my breath to listen. Silence. Then the creak of a floorboard.
Okay, he’s not trying to fix the door. He knows someone’s here.
I finger my knife. Should I open it up? Or fight my way past without bringing that into play?
What if he has a knife of his own? Then I’ll definitely want mine.
I’m about to flip it open when I catch sight of something in the corner. It’s nearly hidden in the darkness, but it looks like…
Is that a billy club? Oh hell yes. Findlay keeps a police baton in his bedroom, the way I keep a baseball bat.
I strain to listen. The apartment seems silent. Then I catch the softest scuff of a boot. He’s halfway down the hall. I take one careful step, lean out, and stretch until my fingers touch the club. They graze wood and start to close, but my aim is off, and the movement starts the baton toppling. I lunge, and it clatters against the wall as I grab it.
I snatch the billy club and jerk back into my spot, clutching it to my chest. There’s no cry from the hall. No pound of footsteps. He heard me. He must have, and yet he’s continuing his silent approach.
The hunter stalking his prey.
I slide the knife into my pocket and lift the club, gripping the handle. It’s wood, smooth with age. There’s a ridged section for a handgrip and a worn leather strap to go around my wrist. The weight is different from a modern baton, and I test it out, preparing.
The next noise is so soft I’m not sure I don’t imagine it. The slide of a foot. Right at the doorway. Turning in to the room.
I press into the wardrobe, and when I hold my breath, I swear I can hear his. Then another soft-footed step. Another.
He knows I’m in here. And he knows there are only two places for me to hide.