Page 21 of The Liar I Married

EIGHTEEN

As I drive home, the feeling of being watched intensifies.

My attention moves from the road to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Behind me, I see a row of headlights, each blinding me from the car behind them.

I take a right and then another until I go around in a square, and one of the sets of lights stays with me.

I catch a glimpse of the front grill as it turns the corner.

Is it the same truck that followed me earlier?

I can’t be sure but each turn seems to bring it closer.

I slow down as the lights turn orange and then gun the motor and flash through the intersection just before they turn red.

I need to get away from the person following me, and I take the turn into my driveway way too fast. The garage door cranks open slowly. “Come on, come on, hurry.”

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten, waiting for the gap to grow big enough for me to slide my SUV inside.

I slam my hand on the door-shutting remote and sit trembling behind the wheel with the doors locked until it clicks shut.

My legs shake as I rush to the door and fumble with the key to get inside the house.

This is another thing I insisted on that I regret now.

Most people can walk directly from their locked garage and into their mudroom but I insisted on having a deadbolt between the two.

My palms are slick with sweat by the time I turn the doorknob and it takes one or two tries to get it to turn without slipping.

I fall inside the door and stare into shadows clinging to the corners.

I’ve never been terrified in my own home before and the sensation chills me to the bone.

The alarm is buzzing and I have a few seconds to put in the code.

Once the buzzing ceases, I reset the alarm and lean against the door panting.

Headlights flash across the windows. Someone is turning around—or are they?

I can see the brightness through the front windows as they pause outside my home.

A noise comes from the passageway and I spin around but see nothing, just an empty space stretching into darkness.

I reach for the lights and sigh with relief as the house brightens before me.

My heart is pounding so fast I can hardly catch my breath.

Gathering all my courage, I walk through the house and check all the doors are locked.

My phone buzzes, startling me, and almost slips from my hand. It’s a message from Alex.

I had a great time today. I hope you’re home safe now.

My fingers tremble as I type a quick reply and then I stare at the phone.

I don’t recall giving Alex my number. In fact, I consider it inappropriate.

I hardly know the man. If John knew Alex has been texting me, he’ll be angry.

My mind goes to Ms. Lawson. I’m sure John has her number on speed dial and Alex is just a friend.

Before I have time to remove my shoes, a scratching noise comes from the window.

I freeze and goosebumps crawl up my arms. Is someone trying to get inside?

Panic grips me and I look around for a weapon.

I edge my way along the wall to the fireplace and grab the poker.

The metal feels heavy and cool in my trembling palm but I can’t just stand here waiting for someone to hurt me.

Watching me is one thing but breaking in is something else.

My life might be in danger. Terrified, I lift the poker like a baseball bat and walk along the tiled passageway, hearing my own footsteps.

Fear is churning my belly but I stand beside the window and wait.

The moment the window moves I’ll strike.

The scratching noise comes again but nothing happens.

The pulse in my ears is so loud, and I’m shaking.

The noise comes again. Dragging in a deep breath, I open the drapes a fraction of an inch and gasp at my reflection.

I sag against the wall, steady myself and then look again.

The noise is just an old overgrown rose bush close to the house scratching the windowpane.

I’m way too jumpy. What’s wrong with me?

I need to stop acting like an idiot and pull myself together.

I return the poker and head into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and search the refrigerator for the meal my housekeeper has left me.

I find a lasagna with a side salad. It’s enough to feed all of us.

As I slide a portion of the lasagna into the microwave to reheat and add a side salad to my plate, my phone buzzes again. It’s a message from John.

I’m staying in town tonight. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.

I thumb a reply: Take your time. I won’t be here tomorrow.

Don’t be difficult, Jessie. You know how these dinner meetings can go on until late at night and you don’t want me driving drunk, do you?

I decline to reply and carry my dinner into the family room.

John won’t allow us to eat meals in front of the TV but he’s not here tonight, is he?

This breaking of the rules feels like freedom and I sit down and put my feet on the coffee table.

I chuckle at my small act of defiance. Watching TV doesn’t help.

After eating, I dump my plates in the dishwasher and head to my bedroom.

Each sound brings back the gnawing feeling inside that insists someone is out there watching me.

It’s playing tricks with my mind. Most people have a particular thing they fear more than anything else—right?

Although I hate to admit it, the one thing that frightens me is being watched and not knowing when someone is going to pounce on me.

I climb into bed but sleep eludes me. It’s as if every creak of the house and rustle of the wind is feeding my growing paranoia.

I really need to talk to someone about this, but who?

John is more distant than ever and my mother would brush it off, saying I’ve always been scared of my own shadow and I need to grow up.

I want to close my eyes and drift off, leaving this house behind in dreams, but darkness presses in on me, heavy and suffocating.

I know someone is out there watching.

Waiting.