Page 20 of The Inmate
“I’m driving home.”
“Will you call me when you get home?”
A vein pulses in my temple. When Caleb asked me to text him when I got home, it was sweet. When my mom asks for the same thing, it’s annoying.
“Mom.” I am on the verge of losing my temper. “I’m a grown woman. I’m not going to call you every day when I get home from work. I’m fine. You have to trust me.”
Before this can turn into an argument, I disconnect the call. Anyway, my house is on the next block.
Like Dawn, I rent out a small house. It’s two stories with two small bedrooms and one bathroom and unfortunately no garage. I could have gotten an apartment like Caleb, but I like having the privacy of my own house. The rents aren’t cheap in Dorchester, but it’s worth it. Technically, Dorchester is part of Boston, but it was originally a separate town, and because it’s so big, sometimes it feels separate from the rest of the city. When I’m driving from my house to the back bay or the south end, I usually say, “I’m going into Boston,” even though I was technically in Boston to begin with.
Most people in my neighborhood are renting houses, and most of them are small like mine. My house is more of a cottage, constructed from brown bricks back in the early 20th century, now slightly crumbling, with vines running along the sides of the walls. It’s never been renovated, and you can tell. Whenever I turn a doorknob, it feels like it’s about to come off in my hand, and the entire house has a total of about three power outlets. Yet it still costs a small fortune to rent.
During the day, my house looks quaint. But as I pull up on my quiet street, I can’t help but compare it to the house I saw earlier today. The small house on a quiet street like mine, with all the lights out inside.
My stomach churns. I used to have a can of mace that I carried in my purse. I needed it for a while, but that situation has thankfully ended, and at some point, I ditched the mace. I did take a self-defense course a few years ago, but my skills are decidedly rusty, and also, there’s nothing quite like a weapon.
I wish I had taken Caleb up on his offer to come home with me.
I climb out of my car, clutching my purse against my stomach. I hit the key fob, and the horn honks twice as the door locks click into place. The moon is absent from the sky tonight. My neighborhood looks so dark in the evening, with just a few dim street lights dotting the sidewalk, especially since we set the clocks back last week.
As quickly as I can, I sprint down my walkway to the front door. My keys are still in my hand, and I fit the door key into the lock. I turn it to the right to unlock the door, but it doesn’t turn. That’s when I realize:
The door isn’t locked.
I take a step back. Why isn’t my front door locked? What the hell?
Okay, there’s some possibility I forgot to lock the door this morning. Despite what my mother said, I live in a decent neighborhood. There aren’t any break-ins around here. So yes, I do sometimes forget to lock the door behind me in the morning.
Did I forget this morning? Entirely possible.
I walk over to the window. I cup my hands over my eyes to peer inside. The inside of my house looks completely dark. I don’t see any movement. No burglars. No murderers.
I can’t very well call the police about this.Hey, 911, my house is unlocked.I could call Caleb, but I’m going to use up a lot of girlfriend points if I make him come all the way over here from his apartment just to walk me into my house for two minutes.
Screw it. I’m sure it’s fine.
I twist the doorknob and push the door open, watching for signs of movement inside my house. It still looks completely dark. Silent.
“Hello?” I call out. It’s the same thing I did when I was at Dawn’s house. I try not to think about that.
I take a deep breath and step into the foyer. I hit the light switch.
Half of me is expecting to see some intruder in a black tracksuit and face mask standing in the middle of my living room. Instead, the living room is empty. It looks exactly the way I left it this morning.
My phone buzzes inside my purse, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I fumble around between a pack of Kleenex and my compact, and I pull out my phone. There’s a blocked number on the screen, just like earlier at work. I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
I wait to hear a string of foreign language or somebody asking me if I want to update my auto insurance, but instead, I hear only silence.
Or maybe breathing.
“Hello?” I say yet again.
Nothing.
I pull the phone away from my ear to disconnect the call, my heart pounding in my chest. I used to get calls like that all the time, sometimes with just silence, but sometimes with a string of threats on the other line. But I haven’t gotten a call like that since… well, it’s been several months. I doubt it’s that same person—they have no reason to hate me anymore.
