Perhaps they’ll think she got in through a window.… Perhaps they won’t notice she slept at home. Perhaps… they’ll think she picked the lock
I hear a slow shuffle down the hall the footsteps loud above my head. Heavy footfalls upon the steps.
Stiff upon my sagging mattress I hold my breath. Listening. Listening. Perhaps it’s not too late? Perhaps… perhaps she’ll make it in before the clicks?
She doesn’t.
Click click click. Three clicks three locks and the door is bolted for the night. A slow shuffle up the stairway down the hall the creak of a door opening and shutting and then all is quiet.
The quiet is a window of time in which the world stands still tense helpless in its waiting.
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