Tick-tock.
I had to move.
My gaze whipped around the kitchen once again, trying to find my phone. But it wasn’t there. What was there, though, was Uncle Stan’s key fob.
If I couldn’t rouse my neighbor quickly enough, I could run for the car. Wherever Stan was, he wouldn’t approve of me taking his car, even if he was… incapacitated. But he would understand. My father could make good on it if I scratched or put a ding in it.
I placed the knife down to stick my finger through the keychain part of the fob, then grabbed the knife again, and made my way toward the back door.
My side hurt.
My face hurt.
My throat hurt.
Swallowing was miserable.
My head was pounding.
But overwhelmingallof that was the panic that got stronger with each step I took toward the back door.
Tick-tock.
I almost wanted to yell at the damn clock to shut the fuck up.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the screen door with my shoulder, gaze scanning the darkened yard.
I usually opted against light pollution, so I didn’t have a bunch of lights around. I suddenly wished I had a bunch of motion lights on all sides of the house. If I survived this, I was going to put some up. Light this fucking yard up.
I moved toward the other side of the back porch, careful not to knock over the pooper-scooper leaned against the wall of the house.
I knocked lightly at first, praying maybe he was up, or the dog would alert him.
But nothing.
Wincing, I knocked louder.
Then louder still.
My heartbeat was thudding in my ears as I stood there waiting, feeling way too exposed, too vulnerable.
I took a few steps toward the edge of the deck. But I stood there for what felt like hours, battling against my own panic.
Finally, I forced myself to look over.
I saw nothing at first.
But then a car turned down the street, their headlights momentarily lighting up the yard.
And right there, just a few feet from the police cruiser, was a body.
Oh, God.
Was that the cop?
Uncle Stan?
Where was the other person?