Chapter 3
It’s difficult to understand the effect his voice has on me. I’m sitting on the couch,
picking at a loose strand of my pants, trying to be as brave as possible. However, his voice makes me feel like a terrified little girl. There’s a hint of a threat in it.
Suddenly, it’s like I’m hearing myself answer rather than consciously doing it. “Mom didn’t return from Vegas. I mean, her flight checked in, the cops said, but she’s not here. They think she’s just extending her bender, I guess. When I got home earlier, there was a note. It mentioned something about my dad’s wallet. Get them Dad’s wallet, and I’ll see Mom again.”
“Read the note to me,” he grunts.
I bite down. I almost snapped at him then, but he’s speaking like he’s used to being in charge. It’s weird. There’s this underlying threat to everything he says as if he’ll somehow hurt me if I don’t read the note aloud. He’s not the man I’ve been fantasizing about, that’s for sure. Is that a surprise? I never really knew him.
“Amelia.” Just as gruff, his voice sends a jolt through me. “The note.”
I read it aloud. “See, just what I said.” Maybe this addition is a little petty, but I’ll take what I can get at this point.
“Are you still at home?” he asks.
“Y-yes.”
“Stay there,” he says.
“Wait, you’re coming?”
“Don’t move.”
He hangs up. I almost call him back, but there’s no point if he’s coming here anyway. I walk into the foyer and see myself in the full-length mirror. I’m wearing jeans and a baggy sweater, the outfit I threw on for the library. I’m currently working at a restaurant and also a grocery store. I didn’t do very well in high school, but I enjoy staying busy. The library’s my way of trying to catch up, I guess.
Is it crazy that I want to change outfits? I imagine going upstairs, finding something… feminine, maybe. Maybe he’d like it if I wore an outfit that hugged my curves. I’m not even sure I have any outfits like that, but—
Outfits?I’m standing here when Michael Rod Camper is on the way, thinking about outfits? What if he’s coming here to hurt me? I never got that sense from him. Scary and intimidating, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman. Not an innocent. He’d always give off that vibe, but maybe I’ve massively misjudged him.
Should I even be at the house when he gets here? Maybe I should go straight to the cops and explain everything, give them the note, and tell them about Michael’s reaction. If I told them that Michael Rod Camper was instantly interested, to the point of quickly driving right to me, that would be suspicious, right? They’d be able to question him and get more information.
This is assuming the cops do their jobs right. I’ve seen police do bad things, but I’ve also seen civilians do bad things. I’ve seen people—cops or not—do good things, too. If this was our old neighborhood, there were a couple of beat cops I could probably talk to. I’d seen them do the right thing over the years.
But we’re on the other side of the city, far away from the reek of the docks and the general neglect, the decay. There’s something else, too, that makes absolutely no sense. I trust Michael Rod Camper on a deep level, even if I shouldn’t.
Perhaps I’ll find a middle ground. Pulling on my sneakers, I walk across the street. It’s quieted down now, the kids inside. Music plays from a house at the end of the road, but not loudly, not the ever-present thud-thud-thud that came from our previous neighbor in our old home.
I’m halfway across the street to Alice’s house when I realize I have zero clue what I’m doing. I’ve only known Alice for a year since she moved into the neighborhood. She’s a friendly, loving woman in her later years, but that doesn’t mean I should get her involved in a potential crime.
“Amelia?” she calls, opening her door, wearing a purple, flower-print apron, her black hair up in curlers. “Just on time. I’ve baked a pie.”
“I…”I wanted to ask if I could hide out in your kitchen to see if Michael Rod Camper is here to kill or help me.Yeah, like I can say that. “I’d love some pie, Alice.”
She waves me inside, talking about her son in the Navy. I do my best to listen about his latest escapades in Malta, but mostly, I’m listening out for the screech of tires outside or trying not to think about what these people could be doing to Mom. I always did my best to protect her.
“When’s Susan back, Amelia?” Alice asks, slicing me a piece of pie.
I take the plate and then stand at the counter. “Uh… soon.”
She sits at the table without a slice of her own. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”
“No,” I say. “Is that okay?”
She spreads her hands. “You’ve got young knees. That’s it.”
I stand at her kitchen window, eating pie from a plate. Alice sits at the small table, looking up at me with a frown. “Something eating you up, dear?”
I swallow a mouthful of pie, delicious, the best pie I’ve ever had. It is every time. “Oh, no, you know…”
That is another statement if ever there was one. I keep eating the pie, making mmm noises that have Alice smiling, even if I can tell she’s still suspicious. When I finish the pie, I put it in the sink, then run the faucet.
“Really, dear, you don’t have to—”
“Please, and I’ll get these for you too.” Alice handwashes all her dishes, so there’s a stack ready for me to attack. It gives me an excuse to stand here. Luckily, offering to wash her dishes is the least suspicious thing I’ve done since walking in here. “How have you been, anyway?”
“The sink is almost full, dear.”
I look down. She’s right, and I haven’t put any dish soap in. “Ah, sorry.” I pull the plug, my hand burning in hot water, and then refill it properly. “Sorry about the water.”
“I have my job at the kiosk, dear. I’m not destitute yet, and dear James left me a sizable sum.” Her intense pride in her job selling ice cream and candy at the park is one of the reasons I like her so much. “Use all the hot water you need. More importantly, have you found a nice man yet? Or woman?”
I roll my eyes. “You still think the jury’s out on that one then, Alice?”
The older lady giggles like a schoolgirl, drumming her fingernails on the table. She loses six decades when she laughs like that. “I haven’t seen evidence either way, so for me, yes. Aren’t you interested in anyone?”
“I know, I know. I’m twenty-one. I’m almost too old.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me, young lady,” she laughs. “There’s a lot you could offer a man.
Maybe there is, but I don’t want just any man. Wrongly, I want the person driving the car currently approaching my house. It’s the same sleek black vehicle he always drove, with a long hood and gleaming silver spokes.
He steps from the car, not dressed as sharply as usual. He has on baggy sweatpants and a black T, his arms bulging, his fit body moving sleekly toward the house. He goes at a light jog and then leans against the door, getting ready to drive his shoulder into it. He’s going to break in.
Just before his shoulder hits, he reaches for the back of his pants. He doesn’t lift his T-shirt, and the fabric’s color makes any outline difficult to see. What else would he have in there except a gun or a bouquet of flowers?
He shoves the door open, almost like the material is paper, and then runs into the house in broad daylight. Whatever’s happening is so extreme that Michael Rod Camper, a possible crime lord or a hitman, is willing to break into my home and kill me in broad goddamn daylight.
“Amelia?” Alice says when I suddenly walk from the room.
While he’s still inside, I’ve got to do it now. My heart hammers as I run from the house. There’s still a crazy part of me that wants to trust him. Maybe he thinks somebody could be in there with me. Perhaps he’s trying to save me, but that’s fairytale bullshit. Where I’m from, that’s not how the world works.
I grab the car keys from my pocket and quickly climb into my car. I almost fumble the key, but then I get it just as Michael Rod Camper appears in the doorway like a horror movie villain, except he’s way more handsome.
My tires screech as I pull out of the spot, my breath coming fast. Turning, I drive down the road, but not quickly. I don’t want to panic and hit somebody. What’s he going to do, anyway? Run me off the road?
Once I leave the street, I turn toward the highway. He’s following me, his big black car stalking like a jungle cat. I keep going while working my teeth from side to side, grinding, a bad habit. I had to wear a mouthguard when I slept as a kid for years, only getting worse after Dad died.
Breathing slowly—no panic attacks today, no way—I drive onto the highway. I’ll head straight to the police station, all via public roads. His black car stalks onto the highway behind me, but there’s nothing he can do. He tried. He failed.
I’ve got to look out for myself.