Page 10 of Depraved
None of them end with me making a new friend.
Whoever just busted in the door isn’t here with any kind of good intention.
I start to slowly walk in the darkness of my office, familiar with the layout, as my eyes adjust to the blackness. The clanging of metal on metal has me holding my breath again, freezing in place.
They’re in the prep kitchen. It’s an empty space about twenty feet from my office used as a setup for caterers when we have parties.
And where we have knives.
I need a weapon.
Damn, my gun’s in the bottom drawer with my phone. Fuck.
My mind starts to reason with me, rationalizing the threat.Maybe it’s a homeless guy looking for food?
Chicago winters tend to make people on the streets pretty damn desperate, and now that we’re at the beginning of December, it seems reasonable…maybe.
I can handle this. I can scare him off. That’s all this is.
I begin to walk again, feeling for the desk and guiding my way around it. Jesus, my pulse is thrumming so fast I’m almost scared it can be heard. Rounding the desk, I squat down, running my hands over the drawer handles until I find the one I need.
The drawer opens smoothly without a sound, something I’m grateful for, and I reach inside and pull the loaded Glock from where it’s hidden along with my cell.
Pushing the button on my phone, I wait for the screen to light up. I’ll call for help and hole up in here until it arrives. It’s going to be okay, and if I have to, I’ll take care of myself.
I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
Voices begin to carry, and I squeeze my eyes shut, putting my forehead on my knees, trying to make out what they’re saying.
“You thought we wouldn’t find you? That you could fucking run?”
Holy shit.
I can’t make out who it is, the voices are too faded. But the anger in the voice, the unsaid promise of death—that’s something all too familiar.
My head shakes from where my face is buried into my knees.
“You’ll never get away. I’m always two steps behind,” the deep voice rumbles.
My head pops up, eyes growing wide.Two steps behind…My father always says he’s two steps behind.
Footsteps sound closer, making their way toward my door. Is he here? Is he taunting me from the hall?
No. It’s not him. It can’t be. I need to focus. I can’t panic.
But my breath starts to feel shallow and erratic. Cold sweat beads along my forehead, and I grit my teeth together, willing the feelings away.
“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself as my memories come flooding back.
“You stupid bitch. You can run. You think we won’t find you? A fine piece like you. We own you until I say otherwise. Or until you’re dead. Get used to it.”
My eyes spring open, ready for the fight. It may not be them, but I’m not taking any chances. They’ll kill me this time or ruin me until I wish I were dead.
I won’t go back. Not again. Not ever.
I release a breath in a whoosh as my free hand reaches to the top of the desk, helping to pull me to standing, with my finger ready on the trigger of my Glock.
I look down at my phone to see it’s still coming to life.
