Page 7 of The Guy Next Door

My phone’s still on my nightstand, but he’s left the bedroom door open, so if I go for it and he comes back down the hall, he’ll see me. And if he sees me, knowing I disobeyed him, he might fucking kill me.

He might kill you anyway.

But if that’s what he wanted, why leave me in this closet alone? And who was that in the backyard?

I don’t have time to figure it out. I need to get the phone and get help.

Kyra chirps as I take a few steps out of the closet. I’m careful not to disturb the floorboards as I start around the bed, on the side opposite my phone, then crawl over the mattress to keep out of view from the doorway.

My phone’s almost within reach. If I could only snatch it, I might get out of this.

Go, go, go!

I grab it off the nightstand, and as I turn to the doorway, I see Zane at the other end of the hall, that intense gaze on me.

I’m. A. Dead. Man.

He starts for me, his jaw tensing, and I sprint into action, racing for the door. My towel drops, and I let it fall as I manage to get to the door just in time to slam it shut and turn the lock.

Thank fuck.

As I start to dial, my hands are shaking so much, I figure I might drop the phone.

9-1-

“Hey! You! Upstairs!” a booming voice echoes through the house. “Sir, I need you to put your hands where I can see them!”

The voice has an authoritative ring to it. A cop? Is this some kind of miracle? Oh fuck, please be a miracle.

“Hey, hey, it’s all good. Calm down.” That must be Zane.

“Hands where we can see them, and drop to the floor,” the officer commands, her voice booming as she directs Zane where to place his hands and asks him about weapons.

I’m about to call out that I’m up here and he’s got a gun when Zane says, “There’s someone else up here in a bedroom.”

“Anyone else, come out where we can see you!”

You’re safe, I tell myself. I grab my towel off the floor and wrap it around my waist, heading out the door.

Warn them about the fucking gun!is my first thought, but I’ve seen the goddamn news. What if they start shooting indiscriminately and I get caught in the line of fire?

But I notice Zane’s on the floor, his hands spread out, though I don’t see his gun on him. What did he do with it?

Keeping my hands up—since I don’t want to have survived him only to get shot by a cop—I head into the hall.

Zane’s a few feet from me, the two officers downstairs, both with their guns out.

“He fucking lives here,” Zane says.

“Kid, you have ID?” one of the officers asks, and I nod.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get down like your friend there, and tell us where it is.”

Friend?

I’m in shock as I get into the same position as my attacker.

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