What was that?
Octavia Winston’s heart constricted as she strained her ears and inhaled. After counting to ten, she exhaled, but she dared not move. As a real estate agent, Octavia was familiar with the mood of a house—its quietness as well as its subtle growing pains. Occupied homes had different vibes from that of a vacant house.
The University City neighborhood was a crossover from St. Louis city to the county. Affectionately called “The Loop” because of its proximity to the elite Washington University, it was known for its thriving nightlife, but in spite of that, this block and adjacent ones had witnessed decades of families come and go. This two-story, three-bedroom brick structure was the latest casualty and now possibly a crime scene. The possible victim: twenty-nine-year-old Octavia Winston.
Lord Jesus, please protect me. Octavia swallowed. She had no escape route in this “lower level”—the preferred term she and her associates liked to use when referring to basements. Get a grip, girl! Who cares about semantics in a time of danger?
What was she thinking when she came in for a quick inspection, leaving her phone and purse secure in a locked car while she was trapped in an unsecured house? She scanned the meticulous area for a stick, brick, or any object that actor Macaulay Culkin of the Home Alone movies would think of to rig as a weapon. The windows were large enough to peep in or out, but not wide enough for an escape.
Octavia felt trapped as her heart pumped faster. Her skin felt clammy. All she had was her car key, which could gouge out her assailant’s eyes. She scrunched up her face at the thought of such a gory scene. Her shoes! Single and living alone, Octavia could fashion a makeshift hammer out of anything. Stilettos had their benefits.
She heard a squeak—time was a wastin’. She had to get past the intruder, out the door and to her car; then she could call the police. “Jesus, I don’t know who is upstairs, but please make me a David to whatever Goliath awaits me.”
Releasing a deep breath, Octavia gathered momentum like a plane revving up its engines for takeoff. She quietly tiptoed to the base of the steps. Lifting her short skirt even higher, she hiked two steps at a time upstairs toward freedom. As Octavia made it to the landing, she barreled into something—someone—somebody who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. With her adrenaline still charged, she tackled him like a defensive football player. The impact seemed to startle the intruder. Good. She took the element of surprise to her advantage.
She scrambled to her feet, but tripped. When her assailant got to his feet, Octavia took off, charging ahead, refusing to look back as she opened the door. Outside, she gulped for air, but kept running. Where were the nosey neighbors when she needed them? She had no witnesses in broad daylight to hear her cries for help.
She scurried across the sidewalk, deactivated her car alarm, jumped into her Taurus and locked the doors. Octavia fumbled with her keys until the right one made contact with the ignition. Steering with one hand, she drove off as she reached for her cell phone on the passenger seat. She used her voice-activation to call the police.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
She started rambling, “I’m a real estate agent and…just come quick. It’s a big one. He’s in the house—”
“Are you still in the house, ma’am?” the female dispatcher queried.
“No. I got away, thank God. I knocked him down, but he kept coming after me—”
“What’s the address?”
Octavia could hear the woman pecking on the keyboard as she gave her the information.
“The police are on their way. Stay on the line—”
Too late. Octavia did the opposite and disconnected. She dictated a text to her friend Terri Mack, another agent and broker she worked under: S.O.S. Man in house. Got out. Called 9-1-1.
Pulling over, she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. In the years she had shown houses, this had never happened to her. The city neighborhood was stable with black middle-class homeowners who took pride in their properties. Even though this particular listing was on a nice street, the protocol for all agents was to lock up after each showing. It was her agency’s listing, so who had breached security?
She peeked down at her stocking, which had a run in it, and she’d broken a nail from a fresh manicure. Plus, her shoulder was throbbing as a result of the tackle. The fear that held her captive dissipated as defiance surged to the top with a vengeance. Making a sharp U-turn, Octavia raced back to the scene of the crime. Whoever the intruder was, she owed him payback, and watching him get arrested would give her sweet satisfaction.