No, the power can’t have been cut. The alarm is still —
Battery backup. Otherwise, someone could just cut the power and break in.
No electricity. No Wi-Fi.
I put my back against the wall and reach into my pocket for my cell…
I’m wearing pj pants. My phone is in my bedroom.
I blink hard, trying to adjust to the nearly nonexistent light. As I do, I listen for something, anything. But the apartment is completely silent now, with the power out. No hum of the fridge or the fan.
Absolute silence.
I swallow, and I swear the sound echoes along the hall.
I could throw open the door and run. But where? To a neighbor, bang on the door in my pj’s… only to discover that everyone’s power is off, that it’s just a blackout, and the Wi-Fi was only the first sign of trouble.
I could glance out a window to check, but I’m nowhere near one. I could open the door and see if the hallway is lit, but if someone’s in here, they’ll hear me turning the bolt.
Do I really think someone’s in here?
There’s no sign of it.
Except that green light. Showing that the alarm system is off.
I rub my forehead. Think, think, think.
To get inside the condo, someone would need to have keys and the code, and Mae wouldn’t just hand those out.
But someone did get past the locks last Saturday. Came in and left my boots and the chocolate bar and Luka’s shirt. However much I’ve tried to deny it, I know someone broke in.
I remember when my family had an alarm. It only lasted a few months, because I could never remember to disarm – or arm – it. I was always racing in and out, my mind elsewhere, and after a half dozen false calls to the security company, my parents left it disarmed. But outside the family, no one had that code.
Wait. Someone had. Someone who needed regular access to our house when my parents were at work and Luka and I were at school.
I remember something Mae said. It doesn’t exactly explain this. It could, though. With a slight stretch. And if it does, it’s yet further proof that my theory is correct.
I look up and down the hall.
Be smart.
Be careful, and be smart.
So many options, enough to make my pulse race and my head throb. Look out the door. Get a knife first. Get my phone first. Shout for Mae. Run to Mae.
Careful. Smart.
Forget pride. Forget the possible humiliation of treating a power outage like a murderous intruder.
Act like it’s the worst-case scenario.
I slide toward the kitchen, my bare feet making no sound on the hardwood. I slide a knife from the block. Not the biggest or the smallest, but a knife I can hold in one hand. Wield with one hand. Then back to the front door. I hesitate there. Bend and peer under, hoping to see a hall light. Nothing. Which might only mean the door is well sealed.
I rise and continue sliding along the hall to my bedroom. The door is open, just as I left it. I creep inside.
A click.
I spin toward my closet as I remember the jingle of the hangers. Is that what I heard? I don’t know. It was just one click.
The door is cracked open. Did I leave it open?
I can’t remember.
I inhale as deeply as I can without making noise. My heart’s thumping so hard I can barely breathe.
I ease toward my bed. The phone is there. Right there where I left it. I snatch it up in my free hand, and then wheel on the closet.
Nothing. All I hear is the sound of my breathing.
I lift the phone, keeping one eye on that closet door.
Call Jesse.
Call 911.
Jesse.
911.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a split second. Just call someone.
I make sure the sound is off, and then I text Jesse.
You up?
Really? That’s what I’m going to say? Why not add a smiley face, too?
I just want to make contact. Make contact and reassure myself that someone is there.
I’m scared, Jesse.
I think there might be someone in the condo.
That’s what I want to say, and I’m ready to type it as soon as he responds.
A red exclamation mark appears beside my message, saying it couldn’t be delivered.
I glance at the top of the screen.
No signal.
How can there be no signal? It’s easy to disconnect our Wi-Fi, but you can’t just disconnect a cell tower.
No, but you can block the signal with a jammer. A piece of technology you could probably pick up at the same store where you bought your remote speakers and projectors.
I hurry into the hall.
Get out.
Run and get —
I look at Mae’s bedroom door.
No way am I running without warning her.
I creep to her door and turn the knob. Then I push. The hinges creak, and I jump, nearly dropping my knife. I clutch it tighter and throw open the door.
Mae’s bedroom is pitch-dark. She has blackout blinds, and they’re drawn shut with heavy curtains pulled over the top, as if a single point of escaped light might keep her awake.
I turn my flashlight app on low, and I can see her form in bed. She can’t be too soundly asleep. I heard her no more than ten minutes ago.
No, I heard something.
Footsteps in the hall. A clack in her room.
I swallow and grip my knife. It’s just a few steps to Mae, yet I can’t seem to cross them.
I’m scared.
No, I’m terrified.
I’m afraid there’s a reason Mae didn’t wake when I knocked on her door. When I called her name. When I stepped into her room.
I’m afraid if I go to her bed and find…
If I find that anything has happened to her, I’ll break down and lose my chance to escape.
But I have to check, don’t I?
I swallow, and I adjust my grip on the knife and the phone, and with the light guiding my way and my ears tuned for the slightest sound, I cross those few steps. My knees bump her bed.
“Mae?” I whisper.
Why whisper? If someone’s here, they know exactly where I am. Every move I make must echo through the silent apartment.
I walk around the bed. There’s a shape in it. I reach out and feel my aunt’s hip. Then I’m at the top of the bed, and I see her dark-blond hair fanning over the pillow.
“Mae?”
I take her shoulder.
“Mae?”
I shake her, lightly at first, and then harder and —
She flops onto her back, and I let out a yelp, and I drop the phone and knife as my hands go to her neck, desperately searching for —
I find a pulse. Or I think I do. I can’t hear her breathing. I’m right here, and the room is silent, and I don’t hear her breathing. I lean in, my ear going to her lips. Then I catch it, but it’s as faint as her pulse.
When I shake her harder, she flops like a rag doll.
She’s sedated. Heavily sedated. Too heavily sedated. I know that, and all I can think about was the time I came home with Gran, a month after the shooting, after we went out to lunch, and Mom stayed behind, and I went into Mom’s room and…
She’d overdosed on sleeping pills. She tried later to say it’d been a mistake and she’d miscounted, but I knew it hadn’t been. I’d run in, and I’d found her just like this.
My heart slams against my ribs as I shake Mae, saying, “Wake up. Please, Mae. Just wake —”
A board creaks in the hall. I stop. There’s a soft thump, like a stockinged foot coming down. Then silence.
I take a deep breath. Pick up the knife. Grip it tight. And then…
I start to call Owen’s name. But I know it’s not Owen. I know who it is, and yet I still want to say his name, pray I am mistaken.
I take a deep breath.
“Tiffany?” I call.
No answer.
I start to again say “Owen,” as if silence is proof that my theory is wrong. But I know better.
My heart’s pounding so hard it takes a second for me to get the words out.
“Tiffany? I know it’s you.”
Knife ready, I start toward the door, letting my feet fall hard, my footsteps clear.
Run, Tiffany. Just run. Please. You have time. Run, and let me get help for Mae and take care of her, and the police can go after you.
Just run. Please, please, please…
A figure fills the doorway.