Page 36 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
“Hi, honey!” elderly Mrs. Crafton calls across the street as she emerges through her front door, waving at me as her poodle, Muffet, sniffs around in the thick grass for a place to do its business.
“Hey! You doing okay?”
“Fine. Just fine.” She stands under her porch lights and eyes my Fiat. “You going to get a more reliable car?”
This isn’t the first time she’s asked.
“Nope.”
I should. Sure, it’s cute. And it’s Tiffany Blue—my favorite color. But it only works sometimes. It’s not very fast and it costs an arm and a leg to fix. Still, I can’t part with it because my father bought it for me when I graduated from high school a few years back.
Shortly after that, Daddy told me to wait here for him while he undertook an overseas mission. He’d be home…eventually. Since he’s been a spy half my life, I’m used to him being gone. In his absence, I’ve done everything he asked. I started night school. I got a good job. He calls periodically, but it’s been weeks now. And he’s been gone for two years. I’m beginning to panic. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing Daddy.
What if he doesn’t make it home this time?
I can’t even check on him. He left me a contact number in case of emergency, meaning my life is in imminent danger. Other than that, I’m forbidden to call. I don’t even know who would answer.
Mrs. Crafton shakes her head at me. “It’s a heap. You should find a man so he can fix that blasted car next time it breaks down.”
Some months I spend more on repairs than rent, but every time I get behind the wheel, I see Daddy squeezing in beside me, smiling and telling me how proud he is.
“Maybe that hunk at work you’re gaga for?” She wags her gray brows at me.
“That’s old-fashioned, Edna.” Besides, Rush doesn’t have any interest in dating me, much less fixing my car.
“That’s practical, honey. And speaking of practical, I saw a guy wander into your backyard about an hour ago. I think he came to read your meter, so you should budget for another gas bill.”
Already? I just received one a week ago. Ugh.
“Thanks for the heads-up. Don’t let Muffet wander into the mud.” I point to her dog, now trotting happily toward a puddle after visiting the groomer yesterday.
“Damn it.” She charges after the bit of white fluff.
With another chuckle, I grab my mail from the box hanging beside my door. Wet. Just like my shoes and my clothes and everything I’m carrying.
I can’t wait to get inside and ditch it all for a warm shower and my cozy pajamas. It’s not cold by any definition—except a Floridian’s. Anytime the temperature drops below seventy, all the natives start shivering.
Slinging my sopping army-green messenger bag onto my shoulder, I unlock the door and let myself in, then shut it behind me. I toss my purse and the soggy mail on the nearby chair before yanking off my shoes, shirt, and skirt, dropping them onto the tile of the adjacent kitchen.
I head inside. It’s dark. I don’t usually get home this late. And why is my place so cold? Did I inadvertently set my thermostat to meat locker before I left this morning?
Teeth chattering, I pad down the shadowy hallway in my wet panties and clinging bra to turn off the burglar alarm. Then I realize the warning chime that I have thirty seconds to disable before the police are notified isn’t pealing.
The house is silent. I pause.
Did I forget to turn it on when I left? No. I remember. I dutifully punched in the code, just like Daddy taught me. I always do it before I leave and again when I come home. I double-check it before showering and going to bed at night. The world is full of monsters. Daddy taught me to be prepared.
Has someone been here?
My heart thuds as I glance into my living room. Residual light from the street shafts through the small but classy space. White walls and chandeliers, tone-on-tone décor with glass accents and flowers. I’m usually really proud of this room.
Right now, I’m scared.
The books stacked at the bottom of my two-tiered table are out of order. I didn’t do that.
Panic floods my veins and turns my breath thready as I tread down the hall and peek in my home office. The desk light is on. The top drawer is open. The shutters are closed. I didn’t do that, either.
Farther down the hall, the powder bath sink is audibly drip, drip, dripping. It wasn’t this morning.
