Page 74 of Play Pretend

“Willow?” the dispatcher said, her voice just as calm. “Are you there?”

He turned toward the bed, his head tilting to the side. Slowly, he moved toward it and ran his hand over the sheets. My teeth sank into my lip as I watched him bring the sheet to his nose. Slowly, he looked around, and I moved farther back in the closet.

Suddenly, he stiffened, and I held my breath. Did he know I was here?

But then he looked out the window and he dropped the sheets to the bed before running from the room.

The hinges squealed as the back door slid shut. Relief flooded my chest for half a second, but then another door opened, and the floor groaned again. My pulse spiked as I realized it wasn’t over.

He was still inside.

I held myself tighter as I listened to him walk around the house again. The footsteps were quicker, more deliberate. Why was he still here? Where were the cops?

“Willow?” the dispatcher said softly, but I could barely hear her past the roaring in my ears.

Finally, my bedroom door opened wider, and my body began shaking even harder. Had he gone to get a weapon? Was he coming back to kill me?

A bright light shone around the room as a giant figure stepped inside. He was somehow bigger than he’d been just a few moments ago, or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me. Slowly, he made his way around the room, his footsteps slow and confident. Finally, he stopped before the closet door.

I held my breath. He was right there.

Right there.

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.

I was about to die. Someone broke into my house, and I was about to fucking die.

Was it better to fight or just let him do what he wanted? I didn’t know what the best course of action was. What would be the least likely thing to get me killed?

The closet door slowly opened. White light shone in my eyes, blinding me, and a raw scream ripped from my throat. I kicked my foot out, connecting with a hard leg.

“Willow—”

I was screaming. I was kicking. I was punching.

The only thing I could focus on was fighting, staying alive.

The shadow dropped to his knees. The flashlight tumbled from his hand and landed on the floor with a muffledthud.

“Baby, it’s me. It’sme.”

His words, his voice, barely registered. He reached for me, but I smacked his hand away.

“Don’t hurt me!” I cried, my nails raking down his arm. “Don’t touch me!”

I reared back to hit him again, hoping to hit something more vital than his forearm.

“It’s me, Willow. It’s Ronan.”

My breath hitched.

I blinked.

There was enough light for me to see his face—it was full of worry and fear, but there was something else, something I couldn't place.

“Ronan?” I breathed. My voice was raspy from screaming, but he heard me.

He was here.

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