“At the hospital?” I say. “What happened? Is he…is Dad…”
Leah’s hand flies to her mouth, and the color drains from her face.
“So stupid,” Mom says. “He was just taking out the recycling, and he slipped on the ice. Broken ankle. Badly broken, apparently. They’re going to pin it.” She breaks off. “Franny, honey. Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I thought…” I choke out. “For a second, I thought…” I thought he’d been shot. But I can’t say it. Not in front of Diane.
“You thought he’d had a stroke?” Mom says. “No, no. Stop worrying. Your dad’s as fit and strong as plenty of men twenty years younger.”
“Yeah.” I wipe my hand across my eyes, blinking away tears.
“Though he’ll be off his ankle for six weeks. Honestly, I can’t quite see how we’re going to manage that. Still, one step at a time, right?”
“Right.” My heart rate is slowly returning to normal. Leah and Diane are both staring at me. “Should I come to the hospital?”
“No point,” she says. “You’d just be waiting around anyway. I’ll stay here with him until he’s out of surgery. We’ll see you at home, though probably not until the morning. Don’t wait up.”
“Okay,” I say. “See you in the morning.”
When I hang up, Diane puts her hand on my shoulder. “What is it, Franny? What happened?”
“My dad slipped on the ice,” I say. “He broke his ankle.”
“Oh dear.” She hesitates. “I’m glad it’s not worse. You looked so upset…”
I look down at the floor. “I thought… um, he has high blood pressure. And awhile back, he had a ministroke type thing.” I shrug. “So I thought the worst, you know?”
None of that is technically untrue, but I still feel like I am lying to her.
“Do you want to stay the night?” she says. “If you’d rather not be at home by yourself?”
I hesitate. The front door bangs open and Jake walks in. He stands there, staring
coldly at me for a moment, then pulls off his boots and walks down the hall without
saying a word. I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I should go home. I’ll be fine.”
A couple of hours later, I regret those words.
I’m not fine at all. The house is too empty, too quiet. The street outside is too dark. The park that runs along our backyard is full of trees, any one of which could hide a sniper. I close the blinds, double-check the locks on the front and back doors and turn on all the lights.
I’m seventeen, for god’s sake. It’s not like I’m not used to being home alone. But I haven’t been this spooked since I watched three horror movies back to back at a sleepover when I was thirteen.
I want to call Leah, but it’s almost midnight. I curl up on the couch in the family room—it’s at the front of the house, away from the park—and check my email and Facebook. Then I flip through the photos on my phone. Almost all of my pictures are of Leah, Buddy and other people’s horses. Finally, my almost-dead battery dies, which I guess is probably a sign that I should go brush my teeth and get into bed.
Then the phone rings. The landline. And the only person who would call me this late is my mom. I jump up, run to the phone and answer it on the second ring. “Hello?”
There is an odd pause, and I know even before I hear the voice. Maybe I should just hang up, but I can’t. I’m frozen to the spot.
“You’ll burn in hell for what you’ve done.” The voice is low, muffled—like he is covering his mouth or speaking into a towel to disguise his identity. “All those babies you’ve killed. All those unborn children whose deaths you’re responsible for.”
I’m flooded with anger. And I want to know who this person is at the other end of the phone line, this person who thinks he has a right to threaten my parents. To turn our lives upside down. “Stop calling us,” I say. “You’re crazy.”
“There’s a target on your back, Heather Green,” the voice says. “If you don’t stop, we’re prepared to use lethal force to stop you.”
He thinks I’m my mom. “You’re wrong about everything,” I say.
“You’re a mother. You should know better.”
“Why are you doing this?” I demand. “Who are you?”
“Baby killer. Maybe we’ll murder your child,” he says. “Your daughter. Her name’s Franny, right?”
I hang up, drop the phone and stare at it like it’s a poisonous snake that might suddenly attack me. My heart is racing, my whole body shaking.
They know my name.
Then I feel stupid and embarrassed, because they’ve known my parents’ names for years. My mom and dad live with that every single day, and they don’t let it stop them.
I pick the phone back up and dial my mom’s cell.
She answers right away. “Franny?”
“Mom.” I’m determined not to cry, but my voice wobbles. I can’t help it. “That guy called again.”
“Oh, honey. Are you okay?”
“Kind of freaked out. He knew my name.”
“Look, maybe you should call Rich Bowerbank.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” I say.
“I know. But he gave us his home number…and I don’t like the idea of you being there on your own.”
Nor do I. “I’m going to come to the hospital,” I say. “Are you in emerg?”
“In my office,” she says. “Quieter place to wait. Perks of being on staff, right?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say. “Maybe fifteen.”
“You’ve got school in the morning,” she protests. “You can’t be up all night.”
“Believe me,” I say, “I’m more likely to sleep there than I am here.”