His fingers closed around the hanging comforter.
I stopped breathing.
The phone in my hand was already recording, but suddenly even that felt dangerous.
One vibration, one accidental sound, and the man standing inches away from my face would know I was beneath him.
The comforter lifted perhaps two inches.
Then he stopped.
“Marcus?”
My stomach twisted.
There was no question anymore.
I knew that voice.
It belonged to my manager.
For a moment my mind refused to accept it.
I had spoken to him that morning.
I had called his office before eight, told him I felt sick, and apologized for missing work.
He had sounded completely normal.
“Get some rest,” he’d told me.
Now he was standing in my bedroom.
The comforter dropped again.
He straightened.
I heard him walk toward the closet and open it.
My thoughts raced so quickly they became almost useless.
Why was he here? How had he entered? Why had Mrs.
Halvorsen heard him shouting the day before, when I had been at work?
Then another thought hit me.
He knew I had called in sick.
He should have expected me to be home.
Unless he had seen my car leave.
The garage.
I had opened the door deliberately so the neighbors would think I’d gone out.
Apparently, someone else had been watching too.
My manager moved back toward the dresser.
“Where did you put it?” he muttered.
A drawer slid open.
I couldn’t see his hands from beneath the bed, only his shoes moving from place to place, but I could hear everything: hangers shifting, papers being moved, the closet door bumping against the wall.
He wasn’t wandering through my house.
He was searching it.
I angled my phone closer to my mouth and unlocked it without looking at the screen.
I knew Mrs.
Halvorsen’s number from the neighborhood contact list.
My fingers shook so badly that it took two attempts to find our message thread.
I typed three words.
Someone is inside.
Then I added: Call police.
I sent it and turned the screen facedown against my chest.
The bedroom went quiet.
My manager’s shoes stopped.
For several seconds I wondered if he had heard the tiny tap of my thumb.
Then he spoke again.
“You think you’re smarter than everybody.”
The sentence wasn’t loud, but there was anger underneath it.
He opened another drawer.
“You smile, you nod, you act grateful.
Then you go home and do whatever you want.”
My skin prickled.
This wasn’t someone looking for valuables.
He was talking to me as though I were standing in front of him.
