Page 64 of Hide From Me

Groaning, I gather my things and shove them into my hoodie pockets.

"Why don’t you come stay here? Or at least visit for dinner? We can invite a few guests—" My mother coaxes like it's the most exciting idea… last time she had a brilliant thought like this, I ended up grounded because rich boy Tommy didn't know how to climb a tree and he fell, breaking his arm. In my defense, I was 13, doing what my mom asked of me by being polite and giving him a chance, but I didn't push him like he accused me of doing. I simply told him I'd never date a snob and his hand slipped. Not my fault. And I'll stand by that.

"No." The car door slams, and I take a steady breath. "I’m sorry. I’m really busy with work and—"

"I’m just saying," she continues, "getting you back into the dating pool might help. Maybe having someone could be beneficial—"

"Oh my God, Mom." I tilt my head toward the sky, praying for patience. She doesn’t know this version of me—the one with sharp edges and tired eyes. She remembers the girl who smiled at sunshine, used her manners, and never talked back.But I’m not that girl anymore.

I wish she’d stop pretending I could be.

“Oh! I could see if the Jenkins boy is still around. He was always so sweet!”

Sweet. Quiet. Timid. Everything I don’t want.

A rumble of thunder cracks above, pushing me to pace under the awning by my door. I need out of this conversation before I lose it.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it—

"I’m seeing someone."

Shit.

The silence on the line stretches for too long but I can’t take it back. That’s the first time I’ve referred to Moe as anything more than just a friend. Is“seeing”the right word? Given our last interaction… maybe. I’m not planning on sleeping with anyone else, and Moe is clingy enough to feel like a boyfriend without the actual title. So perhaps it’s not a lie—just a preemptive excuse for when this relationship inevitably implodes.

Oh that sounded fancy, I like that.

“Oh, Raylen Maria!” my mother squeals so loudly that I have to pull my hand from my ear to avoid damaging my eardrum. She continues rambling so quickly that each word becomes illegible as they blur together. I couldn't piece her sentences together even if I tried, especially since the corner of my mat is out of place.

My heart races as I tilt my head and crouch down to examine it. It’s a simple thing that shouldn’t cause so much panic, but it sends chills down my spine. I pinch the raised edge of the mat and pull it back, only to find my key perfectly aligned with the crack in the concrete, just where it’s supposed to be.

“Yeah, uh—Mom, I’ll call you later. I just got home and need—”

“No! Wait, let me get your father. Oh, do tell! What's his name? Is he nice? When do we meet—”

“I love you.” I abruptly hang up, not giving her a chance to respond.

I stand tall, roll my shoulders back, trying to look bigger than I feel. The door handle’s still locked. That should be reassuring, but instead, the woods around me start to feel like they’re closing in. The wind rustles through the trees like whispered threats. Shadows stretch long and slow, like hands reaching back from a grave I buried long ago.

I glance at my phone. Should I call Moe? Or Jack?

No. If it’s nothing, I’ll feel stupid. I’m just tired and on edge. There’s no one left to hurt me—not anymore–I just need to prove that to myself.

With shaking hands, I growl in frustration as I fumble to tuck my phone away and pull out my house keys. Maybe inviting Moe would have been a goodoption; I could have played it off as needing some company. Even if he says he’ll be busy for a few days, I know he’d still show up. I hate that realization—that he’s one of the most consistent people in my life.

As the door opens, I instinctively slam my hand into the switch, flooding the room with light. No monsters. No stalkers. Justhome.

A loud thump echoes from the end of the hall, and I freeze.

It could be the wind. I wouldn’t be surprised if a ghost finally decided to inhabit my home.

Still, it doesn't stop me from quietly slipping off my shoes so I can tip-toe to the kitchen and grab a knife. What's the worst that can happen? I stab air when I find the possibly non-existent noise. Or I end up stabbing some psychotic stalker. That thought is a lot more tempting than it should be.

There's another thump, but it's much softer and almost impossible to hear. Even if the area is fully lit, I feel like shadows are breathing down my neck, and some serial killer is lurking around the corner, waiting to jump out and kill me. Maybe I should call out, demanding whoever is in the house to show themselves or threaten to call the cops. But what good has that ever done for the people in those horror films? No, I need the element of surprise instead.

I fling open the bathroom door and turn on the light, waving my pitiful kitchen knife around as if it could connect with some foreign object. Of course, it doesn't, and I'm left staring at my reflection in the mirror, flushed and nearly sweating from exertion.

I need sleep—lots of it. That's the only thing I can assume is causing this mass anxiety forming in my chest. Even though I feel a bit safer now, I keep my weapon tightly in my fist as I rush to my room and pull my duffle bag out from under my bed. There's no sense in continuing this wild goose chase for what is likely just a mouse in the wall.