Under Rose-Tainted Skies(65)

There’s someone in my house.

I dry-heave.

Call Mom. I reach down to my waistband, but my cell isn’t there because I left it on the bed. I look over at the way I just walked; the corridor stretches beneath my feet.

Fuck.

I don’t know what to do. My eyes roll into the back of my head, make me blind for a second.

Mental slap.

There is one thing I absolutely cannot do, and that’s pass out.

My body aches as my muscles go into spasm. I roll my jaw, try my best to shake my shoulders loose. I have to breathe. Get some oxygen in my blood and try my best to stop my heart from tripping over itself to choke out beats. I can hear it in my ears. It might sound hypnotic if I weren’t so scared.

I have to move, get away from this door before whoever’s in Mom’s room comes out and finds me. Going back to my room would be a mistake. If whoever is in there is robbing us, they’re going in my room next. I know they haven’t been there already because everything is untouched. A robber would have taken my phone, the TV, my iPod, but it was all still there. Shit, my gran bought me headphones that are worth more than a small car.

Bathroom is out too; there’s nowhere to hide in there. And I stopped being able to fit inside our linen closet when I was six.

Logic says I should go downstairs. Impossible. I’ve got weights strapped to my knees. But I have to find a way or risk meeting the intruder face-to-face. And then what? What if they’re armed? What if they kidnap me? What if they kill me? Is my survival instinct really that broken?

I’m wasting too much time on what-ifs.

I have to move before I shut down. The only parts of my body that are still working sufficiently are my arms. I crouch down, lower my butt on to the carpet, and push myself towards the top of the stairs. It’s just like rowing, except there’s more friction. A lot more friction. The resistance-fuelled scrape of my skin against the worn green carpet that lines our landing stings worse than when you catch your arm on a boiling kettle. It’s like having your legs exfoliated with an electric sander.

My toes test the floor in front of me, silently tapping out my path like a white cane. When the solid surface disappears, I know I’ve reached the first step. I push myself down; my body hits the second step with a sharp jar. I mentally promise my spine to be more careful with the next one.

I keep going, hit the halfway point at the same time I hear Mom’s door squeak. It’s dark out here, not as dark as it was before my eyes adjusted, but still pretty well drenched in night. I pray it’s enough to keep my presence concealed and scoot towards the banister, where there is slightly more shadow.

The intruder leaves my mom’s room backside first. It’s probably better if I don’t see him, but that prepared-for-everything part of me has to know which room he goes into next, has to know what he looks like in case the police ask. I have to know for me too. When this is all over, I’m going to need to be able to put a face to the person that broke into my home and ruined my safe circle for ever.

I blink away tears and wipe them off my cheeks. The intruder turns, and I startle, fight hard to hold a squeal back behind my teeth. The jackass is wearing a skeleton mask. Vomit rises up in my throat. I lift a trembling hand, slap it silently over my mouth, and swallow my gorge back down, along with a tidal wave of sobs. When he moves along the hall, his jacket makes a scrunching sound. I notice his jeans, or rather the skulls stitched on below the side pocket . . .

My mind races back to the moment I first saw them.

Oh, shit.

I’ve got to get out of this house. This is the Helping Hands guy. The one that stood in my kitchen a couple of months ago, ogling my nearly naked frame. I remember his dark eyes climbing up my body like a cockroach.

Bullshit he had a key. Bullshit he was following company procedure. There’s no way my mom would let anyone have a free pass to our house. I should have known that, should have been able to see through his lies. I don’t let my mind question whether or not he’d planned to rob us that day, because if he had that would mean I interrupted him. God, he must be pretty angry at me for that.

I watch him disappear towards my bedroom, and then I carry on sliding down the stairs until I hit the bottom step. I can’t take it twice. I don’t have time. I wonder if he figured out what was wrong with me. He’d only have to ask his boss.

I’m suddenly afraid he’ll catch on to my escape attempt if he finds my room empty. My heart tries to choke me.

I slide onto the floor on my hands and knees and crawl towards the door. My teeth slam down on my tongue when something bites into my palms. There’s a popping sound. Several popping sounds. I freeze. Try to swallow back more tears and a mouthful of hot saliva.

At first I can’t figure out what it is. Something is slicing into me and my best guess would be I’m crawling through a field full of sharp paper. But when I lift my hand, I see it, glistening in whatever moonlight has managed to sneak in through the porch windows. Broken glass. My head snaps around to survey Gran’s Georgian glass cabinet. He must not have been able to pick the rusty antique lock because he’s totalled the front of it, and I’m bleeding all over the debris.

No time to dwell. The door is only a few feet away and my eyes are rolling again. I hold my breath, think of my bed, my soft warm sheets, my favourite book, Mom and me talking about television, Luke’s smile and the way his skin feels against mine.