Page 112 of The First Cut
“That sounds like a you problem, Millie.”
“God, I can’t live in these conditions.” She flounces off before coming back and stealing my son again.
“I’m going to forget what my kid looks like at this rate,” I tell the empty room before I hear scratching at the backdoor. Opening it up, I find to two rather excited dogs who I spend thirty minutes fussing over before they run off once more. Hannibal offered for me to keep them here at the house, but after a couple of nights of howling it became apparent they preferred their kennels, so we just let them wander the property freely. Now they come and go like house guests, only they eat more and demand that I stoke them until my arms ache.
Once they’re gone, I begin the exciting task of laundry and making dinner followed by bathing Evan and feeding him before settling him down for the evening. Byte pops around to check on us, bringing pizza that I put in the fridge, knowing Millie will polish it off if her father doesn’t.
After Byte leaves, when Millie’s in bed and Evan is out cold in the cradle in our room, I pull out my book and try to distract myself from worrying about Hannibal, by losing myself in a world of make-believe. After reading the same page four times, I eventually give up and burrow under the covers, tugging Hannibal’s pillow under my head because it smells like him.
My nerves are making me feel nauseous, but I don’t think they’re going to settle until Hannibal's back home, safe and sound beside me. I toss and turn for a little while but eventually, exhaustion wins out and I drift off into a fitful sleep.
It’s the sound of breaking glass that wakes me. I jolt up, my eyes darting around the room as I fight off the vestiges of sleep.
Maybe I was dreaming? Just as I’m about to lie back down, I hear something falling to the floor with a soft thud. I freeze solid. I tell myself that Millie must have let the dogs back in or maybe Hannibal's home early, but too many years in survival mode have honed my instincts.
Someone’s in the house.
I climb out of bed as quietly as I can and hurry over to Evan’s cradle. I scoop him into my arms, grabbing his pacifier as I go. Hurrying out of the bedroom as quietly as I can, I tiptoe down the stairs to Millie’s room.
Flipping the lamp on beside her bed, I shake her gently awake, placing my finger against my lips for her to be quiet when she jolts awake. “There's someone in the house. I need you to take Evan and hide in the tunnels.”
She jumps out of bed and takes Evan so I can hurry over to the bookcase and ease it away from the wall. Grabbing her cell phone from the bedside table, I place it on Evan’s stomach and usher her inside.
“You stay hidden no matter what you hear. Call Hannibal. Tell him what’s happening.”
“Come with us,” she whispers, tears running down her face.
I cup her cheek and kiss her forehead, my own tears slipping free as I dip my head and kiss Evan’s head. “Go. Take care of your brother for me, okay?” I choke out.
“I will, I promise,” she cries as I ease her farther inside and slide the bookcase back into place.
I swallow hard before wiping my tears and creeping back out of the room. I pause when there's another creak, this one sounding like it’s the bottom step. Darting into Hannibal’s office, I tug the top drawer open and fumble with the lockbox where he keeps his spare gun.
It takes me three tries to open it because my hands are shaking so badly. I check to make sure the gun is loaded, then head back to the door and peek out. Part of me wants to stay here and hide, but I don’t want anyone searching the house and stumbling across Millie and Evan. My boy might be quiet now while he’s asleep, but if he wakes up and starts crying, it won’t take long for whoever is here to find them.
Blowing out a steadying breath, I slip out the door and head back to my bedroom. I climb into bed with the gun in my hand and slide it under the pillow, faking sleep. I work on steadying my breathing, but it proves to be far harder than I anticipated, with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. Feeling my stomach pitch and churn, I try to swallow down the impending need to vomit.
I know who’s here. It’s too much of a coincidence that the one night Hannibal leaves, someone breaks in. I knew this day would come, though I prayed so fucking hard that it wouldn’t. I knew it would take more than a coma to stop Driller from coming for me.
And the worst thing about all this is that it isn’t even about me. It’s never been about me. I’ve always just been a stupid freaking pawn in a game I never wanted to play. My growing anger slowly begins to smother my fear, and for once, I don’t try to fight it back. I let it flood my veins. I let it consume me to the point it might choke me to death. That’s when I hear the door handle turn.
It’s just a soft snick of a noise, something I wouldn’t normally hear if I wasn’t listening for every groan and creak. I force myself to stay still, even though I can sense him approaching the bed.
As soon as I feel a hand lock around my ankle and yank me down the bed, I react. Hannibal would never play these kinds of games with me, especially not after knowing my story. With that thought in my head, I turn with the gun in my hand and fire at the figure looming above me.
The noise is so loud it makes my ears ring and my head throb in pain. I keep firing until the gun clicks, signaling that it’s out of bullets. Only then do I remember to breathe.
The smell of smoke permeates the air as I suck in a deep breath, and the ringing in my ears means I can’t hear anything.However, the crack in the drapes lets enough moonlight through to illuminate the figure sprawled across the floor beside the bed.
My heart is beating so out of control I’m left panting, but I force myself to put the gun on the pillow next to me and slip off the bed. I walk slowly to the body, half expecting it to pull a horror movie move and jump up and grab me. When nothing happens, I edge closer.
Bending down, I nudge the bulky shoulder but get no response. All it confirms is that my intruder is male. With fumbling fingers, I press them against his neck, searching for a pulse. I can’t find anything, and with how much I’m shaking, I’m not sure I’d notice it anyway.
Ready to take a leaf out of Scooby Doo’s book and unmask my attacker, I stumble to the light switch and flick it on, bathing the room in a bright light that makes me wince. I hurry back to the body. When I see the cut covering his back, I freeze, covering my mouth with my hand and swallowing down my cry as I take in the rest of the figure lying on their stomach in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
It has dark hair like Driller’s, but there's gray threaded through it. Gray that Driller doesn’t have. It’s bulky, too, like they lift weights a lot, which Driller doesn’t. I bite my lip to keep from panicking and taste blood as I move back to the body and drop to my knees.
It’s not Driller. The thought explodes in my head like a bomb.
