Page 60 of One Killer Night

I laugh, resuming my work, and reach for another glass to wrap.

Evie wags her perfectly manicured brows before taking a drink of her soda. “So when’s the big move-in date with the father of my future nieces?”

I sigh, still smiling. “Would you quit? Thankfully, this Friday. Between my lease and his, it was a pain. But it turned out to be perfect because now we have the whole weekend to get settled in.”

She rolls her eyes with the perfect amount of jealousy. “Yeah, and to check out your new, amazing neighborhood.” I wiggle my shoulders in a little dance of celebration as she complains. “You’resuch a bitch face that your hot boyfriend snagged a place in Beacon Hill.”

“You can always come visit. You know who else lives in the neighborhood? The giver of that fish next to Trevor.”

She holds up a screwdriver from the many tools on her desk. “Don’t ruin this moment ... Just let me have it. I was just picturing myself lying on your comfy couch. And if you mention Ruth Bader again, I’ll seek revenge.”

I chuckle again before looking down at the box of dishes. She and Chase are never going to get along.

Evie mumbles as she turns in her chair, blocking the view. “What kind of name is Knievie, anyway? She’s clearly ashe. He’s a moron.”

“While I’d love to know how you know the sex of the fish, I gotta go. I want to finish this before Noah gets home.”

She leans into the camera. “Wait, wait ... last thing. Have you heard anything about the article yet?”

It took me about a month after I submitted it to tell my family about what I’d written. And just like I expected, they’ve been understanding and the best hype squad. My dad even has me mostly convinced to hire someone to look into my birth.

But I worry that when someone wants to hide, they usually stay hidden. Still, it feels too empowering not to try.

“Not a word,” I whine. “And it’s excruciating.”

I dramatically drop my head onto my forearms on the counter. I’m still pouting with my face hidden as I hear her in the background.

“It’s going to happen. I believe. Keep me updated. I mean, if you have time between your wifely duties.”

My head snaps up to her goofy smile. “Shut it.”

I press the end button with gusto without saying goodbye. Because she’s insufferable. She’s lucky I love her.

I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts as my music kicks back on, blasting in my ears. “‘Wifely duties.’ Is she serious?” I say to myself before humming along to the Chappell Roan song in my ears.

On the upside, I will repay her teasing with a healthy dose of sister karma when she falls in love. The thought makes me smile as I look back at the empty cabinet, debating what to do next. I suddenly remember that I left a water glass on his nightstand last night, so I spin, patting my hand on the counter to the rhythm in my ears as I head toward Noah’s room.

But the moment I enter, the lights dim, except they weren’t on. I look around, noticing dark shadows cast over the walls. The afternoon suddenly feels like evening.

My eyes dart to the window, which is now framing angry, deep-gray and purple skies outside. Whatever’s kicked up is arriving in a hurry, because the curtains start billowing and whipping around at the bottom.

“Shit,” I whisper before running to close it.

In the two seconds it takes for me to get there, the rain’s already pouring like a seam has torn and all the water’s bursting from heaven. I grip the wood frame, flecks of white paint chipping off the old wood, just as thunder booms.

“Jesus,” I breathe out, having to use a lot of force to shove the pane closed, but not before whips of water hit my face. “I should’ve left the nail in.”

I told Noah there was something wrong with that window. Makes sense why someone had tried to permanently close it. More thunder clicks just as I remember that the small window above the kitchen sink is open too. So I spin, heading out in a hurry as I wipe the rain from my cheeks.

But as I turn the corner, I scream, a loud guttural implosion of shock and fear. The AirPods in my ears fall, bouncing to the floor as my hand darts out in front of me to protect myself.

A man stands like a statue in the doorway, eclipsing the view behind him, partially shadowed as water drips from his T-shirt onto his work boots.

My chest heaves as his almost-black eyes stare back at mine. And it’s terrifying. Because they’re dead, no life behind them. Even the way he blinks is methodical.

“Hi. Why are you in my house?” I say cautiously, but he doesn’t answer.

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