“911. What is your emergency?”
The operator’s voice was calm and soft on the other end of the line. Alone in her home, Rebecca Grey was terrified.
“There’s someone in my house,” she said. “I’ve locked myself in the bathroom.”
Rebecca tried to control her rapid breathing. She was in danger of having a panic attack.
“Stay where you are and I’ll dispatch a police vehicle to your location immediately. Seventy-five Charleston Road?”
“No, it’s Charles Road, not Charleston Road.”
“I’ll amend the address. Can you please confirm your name, ma’am?”
“Rebecca Grey.”
“Deputies from the County Sherriff’s Office are on their way, Ms. Grey. To assist them in finding your house, can you tell me—”
The line suddenly went dead. Rebecca looked in horror at the cordless handset cradled in her right hand. The digital display was blank: the power was out. She pressed the flat edge of the telephone to her forehead and sank to the cool floor tiles of the bathroom. The black-and-white tiling was the only thing that stood out in the enveloping darkness of 3:00 a.m. It was the beautiful art deco–style bathroom that had persuaded her to buy the house ten years ago. She would never have believed back then that she would, one day, be looking at the fan-shaped light fixtures, wondering if she could use them as a weapon. At least her children were spending the night with their grandmother and out of harm’s way.
She pushed herself to her feet, pulling her flannel robe around her pajamas and securing it tightly with the cord. She didn’t keep a gun in the house. That had been a constant source of disagreement with her late husband. As a navy SEAL, he believed he saw the worst side of human nature, and he wanted his wife and children to be able to defend themselves. She saw it differently. Her view of atrocities had always been softened by the lens of a camera. She had taken pictures of plenty of traumatic events during her time as a war photographer, but the camera always seemed to be her shield. It protected her in a way she couldn’t explain. She had been in some of the most dangerous places in the world but never felt threatened because she had always simply been an observer. Now she was a potential target.
She put the phone in the sink and grabbed hold of one of the heavy, frosted-glass light fixtures attached to the wall. She positioned her thumbs on the carved etching of a 1920s figure and pulled down as hard as she could.
In the next moment, she was sprawling across the floor along with the light fixture. The glass clunked and bounced on the ceramic tiles, and she snatched it up as quickly as possible, feeling her heart race with the explosion of noise she’d created in the quiet night.
She jumped to her feet, clutching the glass in both hands, staring at the door, breathing hard with exertion and expectation. The flimsy lock was only intended to let others know that the bathroom was occupied. It was never meant to hold back an intruder. She braced herself for the door to be kicked open, holding the glass up high, trying to focus her eyes in the gloominess.
Instead, she was greeted with an eerie silence. She strained her ears to hear the sounds that had woken her: drawers opening, papers rustling, footsteps on her wooden hallway floor. Nothing. Maybe the burglar had been frightened off by the noise she had made upstairs. Maybe he had assumed the house was empty.
Flashes of red and blue flooded the tiled walls, and she breathed out, letting her body go limp. The police were here. She rushed to the window, only to see them sail right past her front yard.
“No!” she shouted, watching them drive to the end of the road and turn left, which would take them in the direction of Charleston Road. She banged on the pane. “It’s Charles Road you want.”
A loud crash downstairs made her jump. She knew she had to think quickly and try to reach someone else. Only one person came to mind—Conrad Jackson, her late husband’s navy SEAL colleague and best friend. He didn’t live far. He could be there in less than ten minutes, maybe even more quickly than the police officers, who wouldn’t realize their mistake until finding that the numbers on Charleston Road stopped at fifty.
With no time to lose, she slid back the bolt with shaking hands and yanked open the door. All the lights in her bedroom were off, and her digital alarm was blank. It looked as though the power in the entire house was out. She heard a creak on the stairs and couldn’t help a small yelp escaping her mouth. She grabbed her cell phone from her nightstand and darted back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and bolting it again.
She tapped through her contacts list with fumbling fingers, found the name Jack and hit Call. “Pick up, pick up,” she muttered to herself, pacing in her bare feet. “Please pick up.”
The phone was answered on its fifth ring. “Rebecca, it’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”
“Jack,” she said, rushing to get her words out. “There’s someone in my house. He’s coming up the stairs.”
“What?” His voice was so loud, she had to pull the cell phone away from her ear. “Where are you?”
“I’m locked in my bathroom.”
“Where are Charlotte and Emily?” he asked anxiously.
“They’re with their grandma. I’m alone.”
“Did you call the cops?”
She heard the drawers of her nightstand being opened. “Yes, but they went to Charleston Road. He’s in my bedroom, Jack.” She felt a little dizzy. “I can hear him right outside the door.”
“Listen to me, Rebecca, and do exactly what I say.”
Her throat was dry. She swallowed. “Okay.”
“You grab anything you can find in the bathroom to barricade the door. Towels, sheets, even toilet paper can be jammed under the crack at the bottom of the door to create a door stop.”
Rebecca’s eyes darted around the bathroom, mentally checking off all the items she could use. There was a large shelving unit that would take all her strength to move.
“I’ll need to put the phone down to move things,” she said breathlessly.
“Put it on the floor,” he said calmly. He had clearly gone into navy SEAL mode, despite having retired from the job right after her husband died.
