The Overnight Guest(41)
“Did you know that the blue whale is the biggest animal in the world, but its throat is smaller than my hand?” she said, holding up her fist in demonstration.
“He’s lying, you know,” her mother said, flicking through a magazine. “He does this all the time. It’s never going to happen.”
When the girl thought about it, she knew her mother was right. Her father was always saying things like this. Two years ago, he promised to take them to Disney World but balked when she kept bringing it up. “Do you think I’m made of money?” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
And last year, he started talking about taking a trip to the Wisconsin Dells that had a hotel with a water park right inside. It seemed like this time they might really go, but then her father came home and said, “Sorry, I’ve gotta work.”
But still, the girl was hopeful that he’d bring her a dog—a cat even. She started standing on the chair beneath the window so she could hear the rumble of his truck’s tires. Each time her father came through the door, she stared at his jacket pockets hoping to see movement. That happened sometimes on television—the dad would come home with a puppy tucked in his pocket. But there was never a dog.
She had finally given up when one day her father came home carrying a big cardboard box. The girl’s heart soared. Finally, she thought. He set the box on the table and the girl rushed over in anticipation.
“Brought you something,” he said.
“Can I open it?” the girl asked, and her father nodded. Even her mother was intrigued and came over to see what he brought.
The girl lifted a flap on the box and expected to see a tiny nose poke out. Instead, a musty, dry scent filled her nose. She lifted the second flap. Inside were books. Dozens of books. Old ones based on the smell and the shabby covers.
The little girl looked up at her father and did her best to hide the disappointment. Books were nice. The girl loved books, but there wasn’t a puppy in the box and these books were dog-eared and not well cared for.
“What?” her father asked sharply. “You don’t like them? I made a point to stop to pick these out for you and I don’t even get a thank-you?”
The little girl sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “Thank you,” she said blinking back the tears and reaching into the box. She pulled out one with a coffee-colored stain across the front of it.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” her father said knocking the book from her hand. The girl shoved her fingers into her mouth to take away the sting. “Ungrateful little shit,” her father muttered pushing the cardboard box from the table. The books spilled to the floor with a crash and the girl watched as her father stomped up the steps and locked the door behind him.
Later, after he left, her mother pulled the girl onto her lap. “See,” she said, stroking her hair. “I told you he lies. It’s better not to get your hopes up.”
22
Present Day
“Let me in,” Wylie cried as she pounded on the back door. The woman with the hatchet had dragged the boy out of sight. The house was completely dark now, all the flashlights turned off, and the fire had died out or had been extinguished. Tas had stopped barking, and the only sounds were Wylie’s ragged breathing and the moan of the bitter wind that cut through her clothing like a knife.
She couldn’t stay outside much longer, but she had no weapon. Wylie weighed her options. She could make her way back to the barn, search for something to protect herself with, and then return to the house.
Wylie knew there was no time for that. She had to get inside, had to get to the boy. She turned her head, shielded her face, and smashed an elbow into the glass, creating a fine spiderweb of cracks, but still the window held. Knowing that even the roar of the blizzard wouldn’t mask the sound of breaking glass, Wylie hit it again, and this time the window shattered, sending shards flying. Holding her breath, Wylie reached through the window and flipped the lock.
She opened the door and stepped into the mudroom, half expecting a hatchet to come swinging toward her head, but no one was there. No ax-waving maniac, no little boy. Not even Tas.
Wylie moved to the kitchen and shut the mudroom door behind her. She quickly groped through the drawers looking for a weapon until she came across a butcher knife buried beneath a jumble of cutlery. The steel blade was nearly eight inches long but dull, blunted by years of use. It would do.
Even in the short time that she’d been outside, the temperature inside the house had plummeted. Using the headlamp to guide her way forward, Wylie inched her way through the kitchen, taking small, hesitant steps. Wylie had one big advantage over the intruder, she knew this house. Knew the layout and knew the deepest recesses and darkest corners. She was halfway through the kitchen when she saw it. So imperceptible, she almost missed it—the basement door. Open just a sliver, barely enough to slide a piece of paper through.
The basement? Wylie wondered. Filled with cardboard boxes and old furniture, there were plenty of hiding spots, but why would an intruder take the boy down there? Wylie shuddered at the thought. She gently closed the door and locked it imprisoning whoever was on the other side.
If the boy and the woman were in the basement, at least she could contain them there for the time being.
On weak legs, Wylie moved down the hallway, through the empty dining room to the living room and paused. The fire was dead; only a few orange embers glowed. Wylie slowly scanned the room, her heart lurching when the headlamp’s beam landed on the sofa. There sat the woman cradling the hatchet in her arms.