Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
9
Corrine
Maybe I should move back to L.A. At least there were people there. Granted, they were housekeepers, landscapers, and stupid Bill, but at least there were other humans.
But instead, here I was, pulling up in front of my house with Mr. D all because of open doors. Had I lost my mind?
Was I taking advantage of Mr. D’s kindness all because I was afraid of the Boogie Man?
Yes.
Mr. D stopped the car, got out, walked around to my side, and opened the door for me. My mother had taught me to allow a man to open the door for you, but until Mr. D, no one ever had. My mother would most definitely approve of his old-school manners.
“Pack a suitcase for several days,” he said. “Even if we reach your mom, we don’t know how long it will take her to get back to the States from wherever she is.”
I fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door half expecting someone to jump out and grab me. I opened the door slowly and was pleased to at least find the house the way we had left it.
Mr. D glanced around and said, “I’ll walk around and make sure everything’s locked up while you pack.”
I quickly ran upstairs, and when I entered my room, a scream erupted from the depths of my chest, vibrating every muscle in my body.
Painted in red paint on the wall above my headboard was the word:
WHORE
I needed Mr. D. I needed him now.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. D bellowed as he charged up the stairs. “Corrine!”
“In here,” I said weakly, blinking against the graffiti, not sure how to handle myself with Mr. D and what was on my wall.
When Mr. D entered the room, he froze in his tracks. “Jesus Christ.”
He reached for a pair of scissors off my desk and held them in his hand in a defensive pose. “Wait right here,” he commanded as he quickly looked in my closet, under my bed, and then ran out in the hallway to check the rest of the rooms.
Knowing he would want us out of the house as quickly as possible, I reached for my suitcase and began throwing clothing and shoes inside it without much thought. It helped that I had to wear a uniform to school, so I tossed in several different uniform shirts and skirts so I wouldn’t have to keep wearing the same one. It was also the weekend, so I added a bunch of casual outfits as well.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. D said as he entered the room with his phone to his ear. “I’m calling the police. This has crossed a line that I’m no longer comfortable not notifying the police about. There’s actual proof that someone has been in your house now. They need to know.”
I sighed in defeat, but sort of agreed. At least I wouldn’t be the crazy girl saying I just felt like someone was watching me. And the door thing would be hard for anyone to understand. But dripping red paint with a foul word painted on my bedroom wall was pretty hard to argue against. And I couldn’t be accused of doing it myself because I had an air-tight alibi with school and being in detention.
It didn’t take long for the police to arrive, especially since Mr. D had told the dispatcher he wasn’t sure if the invader were still on the property or not. We had made our way to the kitchen while we waited. My packed suitcase was at the door, because regardless of what the police said, I was still leaving. Mr. D had exchanged my scissors for a kitchen knife, and I wondered if anyone would be foolish enough to take this man on.
He was cool and collected, but there was a fierce energy surrounding him as well. I felt protected in his presence—even in this house.
“We’ve checked everywhere, and we’re confident that whoever entered the house has left,” the policeman said.
“I would suggest having someone stay with you tonight,” his partner added, looking at me, “since you said you live alone. We’ll have an extra patrol drive by the house, but since you said you have an alarm system, this person clearly knows how to not get caught. I wouldn’t be alone for a while if you can help it.”
“She’s staying elsewhere,” Mr. D piped in. “But since this isn’t Miss Parker’s first complaint, I’m hoping this one gets taken seriously.”
The police officer nodded, reached out and shook Mr. D’s hand and then nodded toward me. “I’m sorry you’ve had to experience this. There are some crazy people out there. Don’t hesitate to call if you even get a hint he’s returned.”
Mr. D escorted them out the door, and I stood in amazement that I seemed to not be the joke of the police department. They actually took the call seriously, although it was hard to deny the big WHORE painted in blood red on my wall.