another moment realize it was because Fred was standing three feet from me, hair bristled, looking toward the window across from me with a low, deep growl in his throat.
I had only ever heard this dog growl when I was playing with him, or the one time William was agitated in my vicinity. With a dog trained like Fred, growling meant warning.
The small hairs on my neck stood on end. I got up slowly and turned off the light. If someone was in the house Fred wouldn’t be looking at the window. If someone was outside, they would be able to see in if the light was on.
Those were logical thoughts that came slowly, which meant fear was trying to eat away at my senses.
First thing: make sure the doors are locked. I’d gotten lax since I moved to this cottage.
In the darkness I hastened out of the room and away from the windows to the stairwell. There were no other lights on, so I hurried down the stairs and to the front door, Fred shadowing me all the way. I grabbed the deadbolt and twisted—it didn’t move.
Good. Locked.
I let out a breath of relief. Back door would certainly be locked—I never used it.
So. I was in the locked house with a trained, hopefully lethal, Doberman Pincher. Things could be worse.
Next step: peep out the window and get a good laugh when I realized it was Lump needing…something. A chat, maybe. Perhaps she had a fight with Adam.
But Fred wouldn’t growl at Lump. Maybe some hair bristling until she got to the door, but no growl. Growl meant something was amiss.
Okay then, I need to peep out a window.
I really don’t want to.
Steeling my nerve, I tip-toed through the living room to a window facing away from the house. If there was someone out there, they would probably come through the trees and stuff, right?
There was no one there. It took me ten seconds to realize that I was stupid, and Fred was not turned this way. He was turned toward Gladis’s house. Which might be good news.
Oh God, what if Dusty got out?
Fred would eat him.
But what if he still had the gun?
Without further ado, I sprinted upstairs to my bedroom and nearly jumped into my running shoes. Whatever it was, I’d rather run like a chicken then stay and fight. I couldn’t get far in bare feet.
Shoes on, complimenting pajama bottoms and a hoodie, I tip-toed through the house— why am I tip-toeing? —to the side that Fred was still growling at. Hesitantly, I peeped through the side of the curtain.
It was dark. Because it was night.
C’mon brain, fire up!
The moon was slim, so not much light illuminated the pool or surrounding grass. Nothing moved, not even flowers. The night was still and quiet.
I really wished it would’ve been kids trying to drape toilette paper across my cottage.
Fred’s growl got louder.
I hurried back downstairs, trying not to tip-toe since it was hard in running shoes, and crossed the front door to the laundry room. I knew it had blinds and I didn’t want to go sticking my big head in the window for someone to see and shoot at. Or even know I was here.
I peeped again. Still and quiet. The darkness pressed down on the tree line.
How the hell could Fred know something was wrong unless he heard or saw it? Or smelt it? If he did any of those things, it was probably because the intruder was close. If the intruder was close, I should see the sucker.
As if in answer, he stopped growling.
I listened.
Suddenly the night was unnaturally quiet. It felt like the air was pressing in on me from all sides.
I took a big, steadying breath and stared at Fred. He was standing still, sniffing. He took a few steps toward me, then trotted out of the room.
Damn it Fred!
Trying to get my heart back to normal, I went back to the reading room and grabbed my phone. Why I thought running shoes were more important than a phone just showed how off-line my brain was.
Trying to dial with shaking hands, I got the line ringing, hoping Lump was at Gladis’s. It rang out. But then, it was close to twelve, and
I had only ever heard this dog growl when I was playing with him, or the one time William was agitated in my vicinity. With a dog trained like Fred, growling meant warning.
The small hairs on my neck stood on end. I got up slowly and turned off the light. If someone was in the house Fred wouldn’t be looking at the window. If someone was outside, they would be able to see in if the light was on.
Those were logical thoughts that came slowly, which meant fear was trying to eat away at my senses.
First thing: make sure the doors are locked. I’d gotten lax since I moved to this cottage.
In the darkness I hastened out of the room and away from the windows to the stairwell. There were no other lights on, so I hurried down the stairs and to the front door, Fred shadowing me all the way. I grabbed the deadbolt and twisted—it didn’t move.
Good. Locked.
I let out a breath of relief. Back door would certainly be locked—I never used it.
So. I was in the locked house with a trained, hopefully lethal, Doberman Pincher. Things could be worse.
Next step: peep out the window and get a good laugh when I realized it was Lump needing…something. A chat, maybe. Perhaps she had a fight with Adam.
But Fred wouldn’t growl at Lump. Maybe some hair bristling until she got to the door, but no growl. Growl meant something was amiss.
Okay then, I need to peep out a window.
I really don’t want to.
Steeling my nerve, I tip-toed through the living room to a window facing away from the house. If there was someone out there, they would probably come through the trees and stuff, right?
There was no one there. It took me ten seconds to realize that I was stupid, and Fred was not turned this way. He was turned toward Gladis’s house. Which might be good news.
Oh God, what if Dusty got out?
Fred would eat him.
But what if he still had the gun?
Without further ado, I sprinted upstairs to my bedroom and nearly jumped into my running shoes. Whatever it was, I’d rather run like a chicken then stay and fight. I couldn’t get far in bare feet.
Shoes on, complimenting pajama bottoms and a hoodie, I tip-toed through the house— why am I tip-toeing? —to the side that Fred was still growling at. Hesitantly, I peeped through the side of the curtain.
It was dark. Because it was night.
C’mon brain, fire up!
The moon was slim, so not much light illuminated the pool or surrounding grass. Nothing moved, not even flowers. The night was still and quiet.
I really wished it would’ve been kids trying to drape toilette paper across my cottage.
Fred’s growl got louder.
I hurried back downstairs, trying not to tip-toe since it was hard in running shoes, and crossed the front door to the laundry room. I knew it had blinds and I didn’t want to go sticking my big head in the window for someone to see and shoot at. Or even know I was here.
I peeped again. Still and quiet. The darkness pressed down on the tree line.
How the hell could Fred know something was wrong unless he heard or saw it? Or smelt it? If he did any of those things, it was probably because the intruder was close. If the intruder was close, I should see the sucker.
As if in answer, he stopped growling.
I listened.
Suddenly the night was unnaturally quiet. It felt like the air was pressing in on me from all sides.
I took a big, steadying breath and stared at Fred. He was standing still, sniffing. He took a few steps toward me, then trotted out of the room.
Damn it Fred!
Trying to get my heart back to normal, I went back to the reading room and grabbed my phone. Why I thought running shoes were more important than a phone just showed how off-line my brain was.
Trying to dial with shaking hands, I got the line ringing, hoping Lump was at Gladis’s. It rang out. But then, it was close to twelve, and
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