They’re checking the back bedroom, I thought. The bathroom.
I pressed my hands against the French doors. My fingers smudged the glass.
Make a decision.
Think.
Turning quickly, I retraced my steps across the room, accidentally banging into Sam’s chair and knocking it aside.
At the top of the landing I paused and looked down the stairs again.
A moment of vertigo.
Of terror.
But whoever was down there didn’t show themselves or spot me.
Taking one big step forwards, I crossed into the attic bedroom.
My gaze swept across the skylights, the daybed, the hanging chair and the bookshelves. I was sweating so badly my jumper was sticking to my skin.
I ventured on, making for the small cupboard under the eaves where I’d stashed the vacuum cleaner. I had to duck as I got close because of how sharply the ceiling sloped.
The cupboard was fitted flush against the wall, painted in the same off-white as the rest of the room. It had concealed hinges. There was no handle. If you didn’t know it was there, you could easily overlook it.
I couldn’t hide in there.
No way. Not possible.
Not with my claustrophobia.
But inside the cupboard – just past the Hoover and to the right and within careful reaching distance – was a small toolbox.
Sam and I kept it there in case I needed a screwdriver or a pair of pliers when Sam was out because I obviously couldn’t go down into the basement for the rest of our tools.
Inside the toolbox there was also a tape measure. Chisels. Hooks and screws.
And resting on the lid of the toolbox was the hammer that I’d used to hang Sam’s framed X-Files poster.
If I reached inside for the toolbox, I might be able to use the tools to force my way through the French doors. Or I could smash the glass with the hammer if I had to. Defend myself if it came to it.
The cupboard door was secured by a push latch. I knew it squeaked.
Should have oiled it before now.
I looked back across the bedroom towards the doorway. They weren’t up here yet, but I was past pretending I could hear any noises they might be making over the crashing of my pulse in my ears.
And once I opened the door, I’d have the hammer. Once I had the hammer—
I pressed the door.
The latch creaked and clunked as it sprang open just slightly.
Then the door swung back as if of its own accord.
And that’s when I screamed.