The light trickling in from the part in the curtain has changed.
It’s pouring in now, the light much stronger, the sun having started to rise an hour or so ago.
I’ve just opened my eyes and find Erik still lying beside me in bed. I’m not sure whether or not this should surprise me. I can’t remember the last time I woke up with somebody in my bed.
Erik’s still asleep. Lying on his side, facing me. Snoring quietly.
Part of me wants to lean over, wake him with a kiss, but another part wants to let him sleep. He’s working later today and needs all the rest he can get. Me, I’m probably going to head to work too, but that will be much later tonight. I’ll need to give Reggie a call, tell him I’m feeling better. Hope that he isn’t pissed and decides to fire me.
I slip out of bed, completely naked. After all, I’d answered the door last night in only my towel. It sounds sexier than it really is. If I’d known where the night would eventually lead, I would have spent a few extra minutes in the shower to shave my legs.
As I’m dressing, Erik yawns as he stirs awake.
“What time is it?”
I pull a T-shirt over my head, and glance at his watch on the nightstand.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
His head still on the pillow, he squints up at me.
“Do you have any coffee?”
I don’t. I don’t even have a coffee maker or one of those Keurig machines, but for some reason I think that’ll make me seem weird—normal adults at least have a coffee maker, right?—and so I shrug.
“Maybe. Let me check.”
Yawning, he murmurs something about giving him five more minutes and turns himself over so his back is to me.
I leave him to his five minutes and head for the kitchen. I don’t bother checking the fridge or cabinets. I’ve got almost nothing to eat or drink, and I’m not sure yet how I’ll explain it to Erik.
Maybe inviting him in last night was a mistake. Instead of looping my finger on his belt and pulling him forward, I should have pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back toward his apartment. He hadn’t asked many questions last night, but he will eventually. Especially if this becomes more serious. If we do end up getting a cup of coffee. Last night, I had been so sure that was what I wanted—an actual relationship, somebody to care for, to love—but now I’m not so sure. Because I won’t be able to be completely honest with him. I’ll always be keeping secrets. And you can’t have a solid relationship without trust, right? I’m pretty sure I once saw that on a Dr. Phil episode.
The silence in the kitchen is deeper than normal. Typically I hear my neighbor’s TV. But this morning the TV’s off, and so the silence is thick, and beyond the silence—somewhere outside—I can just make out a few car doors shutting.
I cross over to the window, peek out through the slit in the curtain.
The first thing that catches my eye is the red flashing lights. A second later I take in the three police cars parked out on the street, men in Kevlar vests quickly dispersing as they move into position.
By one of the cars, surrounded by a handful of cops, Sheriff Gilbert—a man I’ve never met, have only seen pictures of in the local newspaper—motions at the apartment building.
Points right at my window.
I step away, suddenly holding my breath. Did they see me? I don’t think so. Even if they did, it doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that there isn’t much time.
I close my eyes, focus on the silence.
The soft patter of boots on the macadam outside nearing the building. The men being as quiet as they can, but my ears are attuned to certain noises, like the flick of somebody undoing the safety on his pistol. Soon they’ll enter through the door downstairs, start to creep up the steps.
There’s only one exit from the second floor, excluding going out the window. The stairwell will be tightly covered. The men will be up here in less than a minute.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid? Maybe at the time I didn’t think I would ever be in any need to escape my apartment, but now here I am.
I hurry into the kitchen. Pull open the drawer with the pistols and the knife. I pivot toward the table, knock the Imodium A-D and toilet paper roll to the floor, and then set the weapons down. Ejecting the magazines from each pistol, setting them on the tabletop, racking the slides to cough out a round, and laying all of the pieces on the table next to the knife.
I hesitate a beat, listening to the silence.
Was that a creak down at the end of the hallway?
Maybe only thirty seconds.
I rush into the bedroom to find Erik still on his side, facing the window.
“Get up.”
He grunts, mumbles something about another five minutes.
I tear open the closet door, reach up to the top and push the pillows aside and pull down the Mossberg. Even though it’s not loaded—the box of shells is on the shelf—I pump it once as I turn and aim it at Erik.
As a Marine and cop, Erik knows the sound of an engaged shotgun anywhere. He’s on his feet in an instant, popping up from the bed.
“What the fuck?”
I keep the shotgun aimed.
“I need you to come into the living room. Right now.”
He stands there in his boxer shorts, appraising me, then starts to scan the room, looking for something he can use to defend himself.
I can’t hear the men coming up the steps, but I picture them. Their hands tightly wrapped around the grips of their pistols. Following the lead man down the hallway to my apartment door. They’ll be here any second. I’m not expecting a knock.
I say, “Stop fucking around. Move.”
I step back to give him space.
Erik hesitates a moment, and then complies. Moving past me, out of the bedroom and into the living room. He pauses when he sees the weapons spread out on the kitchen table.
Keeping his back to me, he says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Trying to keep you alive. Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head.”
He turns his head, glares at me from the one eye.
“Fuck you.”
I take a step forward, keep the shotgun aimed at his back.
“Do it now.”
I’m worried that he won’t. That he’ll lunge for the knife on the kitchen table. Or one of the pistols, even though he can see the magazines have been ejected. I’m worried that he’ll do something stupid when those men burst through the door, and that he’ll get shot in the process. But I figure it’s better the men see us immediately upon entering the apartment, not hidden back in the bedroom, where they might think we’ve barricaded ourselves with a cache of weapons.
Finally Erik obeys, lowering himself down onto his knees, reaching up and lacing his fingers on the back of his head.
In the hallway, the footsteps are nearing. We have maybe ten more seconds.
I lower the Mossberg and circle over to the other side of the living room, right next to the couch.
I get down on my knees, set the shotgun beside me, and lace my own fingers behind my head.
Erik stares at me, perplexed.
I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
A second later, the door is kicked open.