Page 5 of Lock
“What’s wrong?” I look between the six-year-old and her dad.
Riley pushes the hood of her onesie down, leaving little pieces of yellow fuzz behind in her hair.
“I don’t want to be cute.”
“Oh.” I look at her dad.
“Apparently, Max from her class says that you can’t get candy if you’re not scary. Baby, Daddy already told you it’s not true.”
Max is a little asshole.
“Not only do you get candy if you’re cute but you actually get more,” I tell her, but she doesn’t look convinced. “In fact, I only dress cute when I trick-or-treat.”
“Really?” she asks quietly.
“Mm-hmm.” I nod.
“What are you dressing as?”
Shit.
“Well, I don’t have anyone to trick-or-treat with, so I’m having a few friends over later instead.”Nice save.I give myself a mental pat on the back.
“You can share my daddy and come with us.”
I melt at her offer. “That’s very sweet, muffin.” At a loss for an excuse, I look at my neighbor for help.
He doesn’t offer any. “You’re welcome to join.”
With no energy to fight, I raise a brow. “I’d have to change. Give me twenty minutes?”
“Ten,” he compromises.
“Fifteen?”
“Twelve.”
“Done!” I offer Riley my hand and start hopping toward my house. Giggling, the little girl copies me.
“Eleven minutes!” her dad calls out.
Gasping in fake outrage, I stop abruptly. “Quick, muffin.” Bending, I wrap my arm around her small waist and lift, tucking her under my arm like a football. “Run!”
Running into the house with her held tight, we leave a trail of giggles. Closing the front door behind me, I flick the lock. It’s become a habit whenever I enter or leave the house for the past three years. A compulsion, not that it ever kept him out.
Carefully, I drop Riley onto my bed.
“Right, muffin. I think I have an old costume somewhere.”
Opening my closet, I drag out an old trunk.Hopefully, something still fits.Pushing clothes aside, I search for what I’m looking for.
“Think your daddy will give me more time?” I call back to Riley, still digging through the trunk.
“No,” a deep voice rumbles.
“Ahh!” I let out a short scream, jumping so hard I knock the trunk. The lid falls, hitting me on the top of my head.
A large hand strokes the back of my hair, while his other hand holds the trunk open.
