Page 159 of The Spider & the Storm

My intuition had been strong for as long as I could remember, and it'd never been stronger than it was then. Someone was in the house, and I knew who it was.

The light from the hallway shone brightly from beneath my closed bedroom door, streaming across the floor and stopping just before my bed. But now, with one more creak of the floorboard, it was blacked out by his form.

Fear was my closest friend. Had been since I'd been a child. But in this moment, adrenaline overpowered my desire to cower and cry beneath my blanket, like a little boy wanting nothingmore than to crawl between his parents in their bed, where it was always safe.

As fast and as silently as possible, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, keeping my eyes on those shadowy feet beneath the door, and swiped the screen to call for emergency services. The call connected immediately, the operator's voice muffled beneath the blood whooshing past my ears. As if happening in slow motion, the doorknob turned slightly in the sheer blanket of light cast from the night-light beneath my desk, and there was no time to provide the details of my emergency to the operator.

But I kept her on the line.

There was a hunting knife in my bedside table drawer. Luke had given it to me for Christmas years ago, and I'd laughed at him when I opened it, even after seeing the spiderweb design etched into the serrated blade.

“What use do I have for a fucking knife?” I’d asked.

“It looked cool,” Luke had said, red-cheeked and embarrassed as I laughed. Then, he added, “And, hey, you never fuckin' know, man. You might need to go hunting at some point.”

I'd tucked it into my drawer in the far back, never wanting to look at it again. It'd been a waste of money then, money we could've used for food or something equally practical.

But now, as I carefully, quickly, quietly opened the drawer and reached back for its carved handle, I thought,Maybe his intuition was just as good as mine.

But I'm not the one hunting. I'm the fucking prey.

The 911 operator kept mumbling into the blanket as I climbed out of the bed and crouched to the floor, knife in hand. The door pushed open, just a crack at first and then all the way. His tall, shadowy figure stretched across the floor, falling over my head.

Get past him. Run. Down the stairs. Out of the house. Run. Down the stairs. Out of the house. Run, run, RUN.

I forced my lungs to steady as I repeated the self-given instructions over and over. He took one, two slow, cautious steps into the room, eyes likely on my bed. But when he realized it was empty, his steps grew more urgent, more impatient, loud as he approached the bed.

Then, he spoke. “Where are you, Charlie boy?”

My throat was dry, and I resisted the urge to swallow. My hiding spot wasn't great by a long shot, but I didn't want to chance giving myself away. Not just yet.

Tommy Wheeler must not have noticed the phone on the blanket, and the operator—bless her soul—stopped her relentless chattering. But she was there. And hopefully, she was doing whatever she did to track my location to send someone over.

I just hoped she wasn't too late.

“Are we playing hide-and-seek?” Tommy asked.

I shifted my gaze to his shadow, dangerously close to where I crouched on the floor. He held something. A gun? His figure was so distorted by the lack of light that I couldn't be sure.

“I'm gonna find you—you know that, right? And when I do, it's game over. Lights out. Bye-bye, Charlie boy.”

Was he drunk? His movements were sure and steady, but the way he was speaking, a little sloppy and slurred, said otherwise.

He's going to kill me.

Of course he was. What other reason did he have to break into my house in the middle of the night? But hearing him say it,knowingit, changed things somehow. It forced a fear greater than any I'd ever felt, but it also filled me with a willingness to live. To prove him wrong.

I'm getting out of here, Tommy boy.

“Where are you, huh?” He threw the blanket back, as if my six-foot-three frame might be hiding in there somewhere. The phone was sent flying, crashing to the floor. “Where the fuck are you, you little pussy bitch?!”

I'm not in here. Turn around. Look somewhere else.

He turned around to face the door, tapping whatever it was against his thigh. I glanced up from my hiding spot, looking over the pile of disheveled sheets to peek at him. The blade of a knife gleamed in the hallway light, and my stifled sigh of relief surprised me.

It's a fair fight, I thought, gripping the handle of my own.But, God, please, don't let me have to use it. I don't want to. Don't make me. Please.

Tommy, turn around. Get out of here. Before you do something stupid.

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