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The motion lights outside flicker, and my stomach knots. When everything crashed down, the neighborhood turned against us. No one likes a thief. He didn’t just steal money—he stole trust and friendships. Now, they look at our house with scorn and suspicion. He hurt so many people—ruined corporations and non-profits. He had no mercy. I think he lost his humanity watching my mother die. I get it. Because I wanted to fight the world, too.
None of that matters now. I have this house, the only thing the feds left me. “Milo, what can I do?” I ask him as I stroke his back. He kneads my thigh, massaging the tension roiling under my skin. It’s his way of telling me not to worry. He’s right. I have a decent job working online as a book editor. If I squint just right, my life almost sounds… normal. Just isolated as hell. Maybe one day, I’ll write some of the stories I made up to occupy my mother. I did love writing. Maybe one day, this house can be my refuge and my escape.
But right now, it feels more like a prison.
I rub under his chin when Milo settles into my lap, pleased with himself. I need to ignore my nosy neighbors; their raised brows and scornful looks start getting out of the house. Get a friend besides my cat. I could join the library’s book club. The librarian always invites me from behind the desk. Encouraging me to step into the world of stories once again.
What’s stopping me? A squeak comes from the front door before the bell rings, and my heart races again. Milo jumps down,tail twitching, his wide eyes locked on the door. “Not helping, buddy,” I mutter.
Milo paces at my feet. Correctly reading the room. “Stay here.” I approach it like I would a ticking bomb. “Hello?” I call out waiting to see if anyone responds.
Silence blankets the house.
My mind races, picturing the worst. What if a gang of kids is ready to egg the place or throw stones through the windows? Seconds feel like minutes. Maybe I should call 911 again. They’ll think I’m crazy, but I don’t care.
“Hello,” a voice booms from outside as I inch closer. “Miss Reynolds.” I freeze. It’s a man’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Officer Holmes, ma’am. I’m with the police. We got a report of a possible break-in.”
I open the door, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. The officer standing there looks tall, broad, and stern. Stoic, yet kindness shines in his dark eyes. I recognize the look.
Pity.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a soft voice.
“No,” I say, too exhausted to hold my tongue. It’s been a long time since I felt alright.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I take in a deep, labored breath. “I thought I heard someonetrying to get in. The motion lights went off.”
“Well, we checked the yard and both sides of the house—all clear. My partner is circling the block now.” He holds my gaze. “This is the third call of the week, you know.” He says it slowly, as if he’s handling the same time bomb.
“I know. I… I just… I was scared.”
“I understand. It’s an unsettling situation.” He examines the yard before focusing back on me. “But it’s like that old story about the boy who cried wolf? Even if you’re not trying to get attention—”
My brows shoot up, and I grind my teeth. “Is that what you guys think? That I’m just making this up.” I point my hand out the window. “For the last three months, I’ve had more attention,” I sneer the word. “More than I asked for or wanted. I’m thrilled people are finally leaving me alone. Why would I invite attention? Especially the attention of the same people who took my father away?”
Milo wanders to my side, winding between my legs. Calming me. I scratch his ears while the officer wipes his hand around the back of his now red neck. “I said I understand. I do. I’m not suggesting you’re lying.” I barely stop myself from clawing his eyes out. “I’m only recommending that you make sure there is a threat before you call. You don’t want the police dragging their feet when you call.” I roll my eyes. “Right?”
I cross my arms across my chest before I grumble, “right.”
“To hell with them,” I whisper, pushing my despair aside. Irefuse to dwell in self-pity.
Another officer joins him when I walk him to the porch. “Find anything?”
Officer Holmes asks him. He responds with an annoyed glare aimed at me. “Nothing. Just like last time—like every time.”
Holmes shoots me a look, which I interpret as, “See what I mean?”
I huff but swallow down the rest of my agitation. I lock the door after apologizing for wasting their time—again. Should I have apologized? No. But that’s what good girls do. We swallow our anger. We follow their rules. When we irritate a man, we apologize. I’m so damn tired of being the good girl. Tired of always obeying. Sick of meekly following when I know damn well I’m qualified to lead.
I want to run away from the house I own. Start a new life. Where I’ll wear bold, bright colors, play my music too loud, and drag my toes through the sand. I’ll meet a bad boy. Maybe a biker who reeks of trouble but who wants me desperately. I’ll grind on him in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Not giving a damn about who’s watching. When he can’t take it anymore, he’ll wrap my legs around his waist and carry me to the bathroom, taking the v-card I’ve never had a chance to give anyone. A card I can’t wait to get rid of.
My father would lose his mind at my outrageous behavior. I will not care, apologize, or say sorry. I will live the stories I’ve created in my mind. Fantasies I’ve only been able to dream about…
