Page 25 of What We May Be

Chapter Eight

Julian Hirsch eased open the well-oiled back door of his home and peered inside, checking for any signs of life in the darkened house. Cocking his wrist, the glowing digital face of his watch read half past two in the morning. As it was Monday, his wife’s shift at the hospital didn’t end until five, so he should be in the clear. But he had to be careful, considering.

“Darling, are you home?”

Hearing no response, he continued across the threshold and flipped on the overhead lights in the mudroom. He braced a hand on the built-in organizer, toed off his shoes, tucked them into a cubbyhole, and dropped his wallet and keys into the catchall drawer. Phone in hand, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the fictional name he was looking for.

He tapped out a quick text message. Need to see you again. He thought for a moment on when his wife’s next graveyard shift fell. Wednesday night? He hoped the extra touch of desperation would be enough to convince her. He didn’t have to wait long.

See you then, Professor, came her reply.

His cock stiffened at the prospect of another few rounds like tonight. Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. Smirking, he deleted the incriminating text messages, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and pulled off his shirt. He was about to toss it in the laundry basket when a shimmer of pink lip-gloss on the collar caught his eye. He attempted to rub the stain out with his thumb but only made it worse.

“Damn it.”

He turned on the hot water in the utility sink and held the shirt collar under the faucet. After a few minutes of scrubbing with detergent, the damning stain was hardly noticeable, but his wife’s well-trained eye would probably see it. He spotted a few mounds of sorted dirty clothes, then glanced at his watch again, quickly doing the math in his head. He had enough time to do a few loads before she got home—one might look suspicious, but three would look like a good husbandly deed. Starting with the load of towels, he tossed the shirt in with them, added an overflowing cup of detergent, and set it to run on heavy duty.

Problem solved.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he turned off the lights and left the laundry room, padding barefoot through the moonlit first floor of his refurbished Southern colonial. His foot landed on the second step of the curved staircase and a loud click rang out behind him. Whirling, his stomach lurched as he stared into the shadows.

Had his wife come home early?

Was there someone else in the house?

His eyes and ears frantically searched for the source of the noise. Seconds later, he jumped out of his skin at another loud click.

He reversed a step, his fingers white-knuckling the banister. “Who’s there?”

His question was answered by a whoosh of water filling the washing machine. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, he released his death grip on the railing and chuckled at himself for getting worked up over the washer’s safety lock.

He shook his head at the silly fit of paranoia and climbed the stairs the rest of the way to the second floor. In the master bedroom, he discarded his phone on the bedside table and shed his pants and undershirt on the way to the bathroom. Under the bright vanity lights, he inspected his appearance in the mirror, looking for any scratches or hickeys, an unfortunate side effect of bedding coeds who often got carried away. Finding none, he cranked on the shower, turned it to hot, and hopped in, rinsing off any evidence his wife might otherwise detect. He indulged in the spray a couple extra minutes before turning off the water and toweling dry.

He swiped clean the vanity mirror to make one last examination.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

“You do like ’em young, don’t you, Julian?” sneered the visage standing behind him. “And only a few months back from the honeymoon. Guess that’s over.”

He struggled to find a voice for the questions swirling in his mind. Too late. The reflection rushed him, aiming a gloved fist at his neck, a silver needle glinting in the light. Spinning, Julian raised his hands. Too late again. The needle punctured his throat and cool liquid rushed into his veins. He batted the needle away and his assailant scurried past him, out of the bathroom. Julian moved to chase—one step, two steps—before his legs gave out, dropping him to his knees on the slick tile floor.

A cold, hard cackle sent chills down his spine. He’d never been more terrified in his life. Crawling into the bedroom on his hands and knees, his fear multiplied tenfold as he watched through increasingly hazy eyes as his attacker removed several thick ropes from a duffel and expertly knotted one to each bedpost.

“What’re you…going to do…to me?”

He collapsed onto his side as the world spun, his heart beating like a jackhammer, but the pumping blood did nothing to stir his immobile limbs. It was a struggle to lift his head, to force his eyelids to stay open so he could stare up at the person who, he realized with startling clarity, was going to end his life.

“Only what you deserve, Julian.” The reaper fluffed a pillow between gloved hands. “Only what you deserve.”

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