Page 1 of Sanctuary

Chapter 1

MiaAndrews

The morning sun had barely peeked over the horizon when there was a knock on my door. Frozen in fear, I laid on my bed under the sheets and listened to the footsteps on my wooden porch just outside my bedroom window. Two men could be heard talking in low tones. One was my landlord, Mr. Baxter. He sounded agitated, his normally jovial voice tense and brittle.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you can’t just come barging in here at the crack of dawn,” Mr. Baxter hissed. “This is private property.”

The other man’s voice was low and gravelly, barely audible through the thin walls. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need to speak with Mia. It’s urgent.”

I reached for my cellphone on my nightstand as my heart started racing. I’m a librarian, I doubted very much that they wanted to return an overdue book to me personally. So that led to the question: Who was looking for me? And why?

“Urgent or not, you can’t go breaking into people’s homes,” Mr. Baxter retorted. “Come back at a decent hour and knock on the door like a normal person.”

There was a shuffling sound, then a muffled thud. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the gravelly voice replied, a hint of menace creeping into his tone. “Now, step aside.”

I clutched my phone in my hand, my thumb hovering over the call button for 911 and held my breath, straining to hear what was happening. The floorboards of the porch creaked as someone took a step.

Then I heard it. A soft ‘pew pew’ sound, barely louder than a whisper. My blood ran cold the second I heard it - the muffled report of a gun fitted with a silencer.

I connected the call, adrenaline surged through me as I bolted upright. Throwing off the covers I lunged for the backpack I always kept packed and ready by my nightstand - a habit I’d developed just like wearing jogging pants and a t shirt to bed. All because of Cookie, my half brother. Ever since he had come to live with me, uninvited. Those were chaotic months when he had stayed. His involvement with a loan shark in Toronto and some other shady business had left me perpetually on edge, always prepared to run at a moment’s notice. He was long dead, having shot him myself, when the MacGallan’s had arrived on my doorstep to bring him back to Toronto and I tagged along. He was a jerk and not missed by any means.

With trembling hands, I slipped the phone into the side pocket, then slung the backpack over my shoulders and crept towards the window. Peering through a gap in the curtains, I saw Mr. Baxter sitting on the floor of my porch, slumped over, a dark stain spreading across his chest. The other man - tall, broad-shouldered, dressed all in black - was picking the lock on my front door.

My mind raced. The back door? No, he’d hear me. The window? Too noisy. My gaze fell on the trapdoor in my bedroom floor - a quirk of the old house that I’d always found charming, but never thought I’d actually use.

Silently, I pulled on the rug that laid upon it. It was cleverly attached and would settle back in its place once closed, or at least I hope it would. I winced at the slight creak of old hinges and the smell of damp earth hitting my nostrils. If he hadn’t heard me opening it, he would certainly smell the pungent odor when he made it inside.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it because the sound of the last tumbler in the lock on the front door moving into place, ricocheted off the walls like the blast from a rifle. Quickly, I lowered myself into the crawl space below, pulling the door shut above me just as I heard the front door swing open.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the house as the intruder searched room by room. I held my breath, trying to still my racing heart as dust tickled my nose. The footsteps grew louder as they approached my bedroom.

I wasn’t waiting. I started crab walking over the uneven earth as I heard my bedroom door creak open, followed by the sound of drawers being yanked out and tossed aside. The intruder was methodically tearing apart my room, clearly searching for something. But what?

My mind flashed to the tampons in the pocket of my backpack. I’d stuffed a USB drive into one - Cookie had given it to me before his death. He told me to hide it and never give it to anyone unless he died. Well, he did die when I killed him, but did that count? Whatever was on it must be valuable... and possibly dangerous.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he would hear it as I inched backwards through the cramped space, cobwebs clinging to my hair and clothes. I looked over my shoulder, to see the daylight streaming through a screened in frame that allowed air circulation and aimed towards it. It would exit to the overgrown garden where there were surely a few snakes but that wasn’t about to stop me. As long as I could reach it without making a sound, I might have a chance.

The footsteps grew closer, now directly above me. I froze, hardly daring to breathe. A floorboard creaked, and a shower of dust rained down through the cracks. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the intruder to move on.

After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps receded. I let out a shaky breath, my eyes glued to the trapdoor as I resumed my slow crawl towards freedom.

Just as my fingers brushed against the screen, a beam of light cut through the darkness. The trapdoor opened.

“I know you’re down there,” his gravelly voice yelled out. “There’s nowhere left to run.”

Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I forced it down. I hadn’t crawled backwards in God knew what, to be caught now. With a surge of desperation, I turned around and kicked at the screen. The old wooden frame gave way with a loud crack, and I scrambled out into the chilly morning air, to the sound of police sirens approaching in the near distance.

I scrambled to my feet and ran, thorny vines tearing at my clothes and skin. Behind me, I heard his footsteps echoing through my house, but I didn’t look back, focusing only on putting as much distance between us as possible.

As I reached the edge of the property, I heard him yell, “I’ll get you one day bitch!” Then a car door slammed, and the engine roared to life. Headlights swept across the overgrown lawn, momentarily blinding me. I ducked behind a gnarled old oak tree, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.

The car stopped. Sitting there idling for a moment as if he were contemplating on coming after me anyway but then he peeled away with a screech of tires as the sirens drew closer.

I fumbled in my backpack for the pair of Converse I knew that were there and slipped them on my bare feet. Pulling out a hoodie, I pulled that on over my t-shirt and drew the hood over my hair. Then, I pawed inside my pack for the makeup bag that held the stash of cash. Satisfied that it was there, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and pushed away from the tree and ran away from the house I’d called home for the past five years.

Once I got a safe distance away, I stopped and took my phone out of my backpack.

“Hello, can you hear me?” It was the 911 operator.

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