The Last Time She Saw Him (5 page)

“Why would you ask a weirdo question like that? You’re thinking about those scary shows like
Dark Shadows
and
Kolchak: The Night Stalker
again, huh? I told you not to watch those with me because I knew you couldn’t take it.”

* * *

I push back the memory and get back to the business of securing the house. Once the security alarm is activated, my nerves ease slightly, but I still want to double-check the deadbolt on the front door and install the safety bar across the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard in the downstairs playroom. I start upstairs first. I yank the front doorknob as hard as I can until my hands shake from the effort, and the wooden door groans against the metal lock. Satisfied that it is secure, I start downstairs but pause when I see the answering machine’s message light blinking a furious red on the kitchen countertop. I hesitate for a minute, and then hit the play button.

First message:
“It’s Primo. I know you aren’t scheduled to come back to the paper until later in the month, but I need you back in the newsroom first thing tomorrow. Reverend Casey Cahill is up for parole. The parole hearing isn’t scheduled for a couple of weeks, but you need to start working on a Sunday centerpiece for the weekend. I’m sure
The Detroit News
is working on the same angle, so we need to beat them to it. Get a face-to-face with Cahill at the Macomb prison. Don’t call me back with excuses. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hit the delete button.

Second message:
“Julia, it’s Sarah.”

I stare back at the answering machine as if it’s an unwanted old ghost.

“
Things ended on a bad note for us. I’m in town. I flew all the way to Michigan to see you. I still have the same number. I just want to make amends for what I did. I hope you’ll call. I miss you, Julia.”

For a second, the memory of the sister I used to know begins to creep back. My sentimentality quickly gives in to anger and I slam down the delete button.

“
Third message
,” the answering machine’s robotic monotone continues.

I wait for a voice, but the only sound on the recording is a loud crackling on the line.
Must be a bad cell phone connection
, I think. I wait for a second to erase the message when a barely audible voice cuts through.

“
Julia
. . .
get out . . .
”

The voice is almost a whisper.

“
Can’t get there in time
. . .”

“Who the hell is this?” I ask.

“
It’s coming back
. . .”

My heart starts to pound in my chest.

“
For you this time
.”

The caller ends the message abruptly. A steady whine of dial tone hums through the answering machine for a good thirty seconds until it is replaced by a busy signal.

“
End of third message
.”

My eyes dart across the kitchen countertop and hover for a second on a wooden knife rack, but then move to the house phone. I reach for it and accidentally knock a stack of Logan’s library books to the floor. I pull the receiver from the cradle and pound my finger on the keypad to dial 911.

“Come on, come on!” I cry out and jam the phone receiver against my ear.

The phone is dead.

A silent scream begins to build from deep within my core. Paranoid personality disorder. That’s what David and the psychiatrist would say. Just a coincidental sequence of two unrelated events.

But the caller said my name.

I force myself to focus. My cell phone is downstairs. I left it in the boys’ playroom earlier when we got home from the lake. I slide a six-inch steak knife out of the rack and grasp it firmly in my right hand as I make my way down the staircase to the bottom floor of the house.

The downstairs playroom is completely dark except for a soft reflection of moonlight coming from the sliding glass door that faces the backyard.

I flick the wall switch and fully expect to see someone pressed up against the window, Freddy Krueger style. But no one is there, just pitch-black country night on the other side of the glass.

I exhale, one battle down, and head to the glass door to check the lock.

I take exactly six steps across the playroom when the lights go out. David’s voice echoes in my head, telling me everything is fine. Just something faulty in the wiring. All I need to do is check the circuit breaker.
Easy as pie, Julia.

Bullshit.

I sprint through the dark room in the direction of the stairs when my hip catches hard against the pool table. On impact, the knife flies out of my hand and I struggle to regain my balance.

I fumble on hands and knees to find the knife when a piercing crash echoes from the kitchen and the now-broken object scatters its remains across the upstairs floor.

“Logan?” I call out, trying to quell any trace of fear in my voice. Logan is afraid of the dark. “It’s okay. The power is out. Just stay where you are.”

Logan doesn’t respond.

I scramble like a crab across the floor until my hand grazes the first step of the stairwell. I grab the bannister to steady myself as footsteps, hard and fast, run directly above me. I try to scream but fear chokes off my voice as I finally accept my worst nightmare is no longer just playing in an endless loop in my mind. This time it’s real. Someone is inside.

I hear a voice screaming and realize it’s my own.

“Logan, run to Will’s room and lock the door!”

My desperate plea is muffled by a second set of heavy footsteps that thump down the upstairs hallway toward the boys’ rooms.

“Get out of my house!” I cry as my foot hits the landing.

The main floor of the house is dark, except for a faint sliver of light coming through the now open door to the garage. I start toward the garage but instinctively change my route and run to the boys’ rooms instead.

“The safe is downstairs. It’s unlocked,” I cry. We don’t have a safe. If the intruders just go downstairs, I can grab the boys and we can get out of the house.

“The police are on their way, and I’m armed,” I lie again as I run for Logan and Will.

Logan’s bedroom is the first room on the left. His door is wide open. I feel my heart beating up into my throat as I enter the room. In the contours of the darkness, I can make out a small lump huddled in the corner of the bed. I lunge forward to grab Logan, but quickly realize the shape is only his Spider-Man blanket bunched up by his pillow.

“Logan!” I scream as something latches around my ankle.

“Mommy, it’s me,” Logan whimpers.

I slide down on my stomach and face my oldest son, who is cowering under his bed.

“You need to stay in the room, baby. Follow Mommy to the door and then lock it. Do not unlock the door unless I tell you.”

“I want to go with you, Mommy. Please!” Logan sobs.

“No. Stay here. Understand?”

“Okay, Mommy,” Logan whispers.

Logan has a flashlight on top of his nightstand. I grab the flashlight and wait until I hear Logan lock the door behind me.

The fresh scent of body odor and cigarettes clings in the hallway.

Will’s door is closed tight. I left it open a few inches when I put him to sleep just twenty minutes earlier. I flash the thin beam of the light in front of the closed door. The light catches the Winnie the Pooh and Piglet stencil I put on Will’s bedroom door this summer.

The door is locked. I rear my leg back and slam my foot against the thin wooden door, which snaps open after three tries. I strengthen my grip around the flashlight, ready to use it as a weapon. Back and forth, up and down, I point the flashlight in all directions. I have to see the intruders before they see me.

But the light only catches the mundane objects of a toddler’s room: Will’s brown stuffed dog with the white eye patch, his changing table with clothes I already laid out for morning, and a framed vintage picture of the Sparrow boardwalk I hung for luck. Ben promised he would always be there to protect me, and I wanted to believe he would do the same for Logan and Will.

I let the flashlight fall down by my feet and dive my arms inside the crib. I instinctively expect to feel Will’s soft sleeping body against my touch, but instead my hands feel only his crib sheet, still warm, underneath my fingers.

“Will!” I scream.

I flail my hands against the floor until I feel the metal cylinder of the flashlight, which shut off after I dropped it. I have to find Will before the intruders escape with him outside. I picture the open door to the garage. I should have gone in that direction first, and if I am too late, there are no second chances.