Page 66

Jessica

My legs give out as I make it to the house’s yard. I wobble across the neatly cut grass and up the front porch steps. The front door is bright red, and I press the doorbell, then use the knocker. I wait a minute, then try again.

“Come on ...,” I mutter, and move to the window, cupping my hands and peering in. It’s hard to see, but it’s dark inside. No sign of movement.

I walk to the edge of the porch and lean over the railing, trying to see if there’s a car parked around the side of the house.

There’s a detached garage there, but it looks like the type people store other stuff in instead of vehicles.

On the edge of the garage is a light pole and a line that runs from it to the house.

I study it, then look up at the rest of the lines running to the house.

They go off to the left, following the driveway, and I’m assuming to a road, one with actual pavement and cars.

Maybe one of these wires is for a telephone. I ring the doorbell again and then put my hand on the knob, turning it slightly, just to test it. It turns and the door cracks open. Surprised, I stare at the crack, then look around, double-checking that I’m all by myself.

“Hello?” I call out, putting my mouth to the crack.

“Is anyone home?” I ease the door open. Inside, it’s super cute, like a cozy-library-meets-woodsy-lodge feel.

There’s got to be a phone in here. If not a phone, then at least a pair of shoes.

“Hello?” I belt out the greeting as loudly as I can as I step in.

I can’t believe this place is unlocked. Mom always preached the “every lock, every time” philosophy, and had convinced me at an early age that if you leave your shit unattended, someone will help themselves to it.

Five minutes, max. I’ll look for a phone and a pair of shoes. Quick in and out before the owners come back and think I’m an intruder.

I close the door behind me, then pause, looking down at the smooth, polished floor. My socks are disgusting and wet. I hold on to the wall and peel off my socks, then hiss at the cut on the bottom of my right foot. I’ll look for some hydrogen peroxide and a Band-Aid.

I leave the socks on the interior welcome mat and wipe my bare feet carefully, then move forward.

The living room is open to the kitchen, which has one of the green stoves that my favorite internet chef has.

I scan the counters, looking for a phone cradle, but there’s nothing there.

I open the first door I come to—a small bathroom.

The next door is a bedroom with two double beds.

There are personal items on the bedside tables and an open door that gives a glimpse into a large bath.

Scanning the dresser for a phone, I come up short.

A woman’s watch. Perfume bottle. Brush and discarded shirt.

A novel. I keep moving into the bathroom and start opening drawers, looking for first aid supplies.

The third drawer has a pharmacy’s worth of items, and I grab hydrogen peroxide and some antibiotic ointment.

I prop my right foot up on the edge of the sink and carefully pour the brown bottle over the wound.

It foams up, and I set down the bottle and wait a moment, letting it work.

There’s a silver frame facing the other sink, and I hop a little to the left and position it toward me so I can see.

It’s Dr. Joe and the nurse.

I stare at it in horror. I pull my foot from the sink and do a slow turn, trying to find any other clues as to the homeowners. A woman’s robe hanging from the hook. I reopen the drawers and grab the men’s cologne, lifting it to my nose.

It’s his. The expensive scent hits my nose, and I recoil at it. Shit. I need to get out of here. I grab the box of assorted Band-Aids, and they spill. Picking up one of the larger sizes, I pause at the sound of a door slamming and the creak of the wood floor.

Someone is here.