Help me, Brittany prayed. I don’t deserve it, but help me. With a smile she waved to Larry Post, as she walked over to the living room window. She still had her cell phone in her pocket. He was opening the cover of a large box. She could see rows of hundreds lined up in it, each packet with a printed tape around it.
I’ll open the door, she thought. Maybe I can stall him. I don’t have the security system on. If he tries to open or break a window, he could do it in a minute. He thinks I’d never call the police for help. I don’t have a chance. But maybe . . .
“Hi, Larry,” she called. “I know what you’ve got. I’ll open the door for you.”
As she turned her back to him, she took out the phone and dialed 911. When an operator answered, she whispered, “Home invasion. I know the man. He’s dangerous.” Knowing that the local police were familiar with the location of the farmhouse, she cried, “The Owens farmhouse. Hurry. Please hurry.”