Page 13 of Deadly North
I spend a nervous evening eating frozen pizza in the dark, watching old comfort shows on my laptop with Tedward. A couple of times, in between bingeing episodes, I give in to the impulse to Google Dylan’s name. But there’s nothing about him on the internet. His name just isn’t there. Nothing about his life. But also, nothing about his death.
When my eyes are so dry from screen time that I can hardly keep them open, I get up and pad to the kitchen. Opening my junk drawer, I quickly stuff the switchblade all the way to the back. I wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom, and do one more round of lock checks before I go to bed. Bathroom window: check. Bedroom windows: check. Kitchen: check.
But as I’m walking back into the living room, something stops me in my tracks. A rattle at the front door. Soft, at first, then louder.
Frantically, I run on tiptoes back to the bedroom. I grab my phone from the top of the nightstand with one hand, and with the other pull open the drawer and get out the pistol I keep in there. Shaking, I find the contacts and hit my brother’s number.
“Connor,” I half-whisper. “There’s someone trying to break into my house! Please come!”
“Lock yourself in your bathroom with your gun,” he orders. “I’ll be right there.”
I should do exactly what he says. But I can’t just wait for the intruder to break in and come find me. So terrified I feel like I’m going to throw up, I tiptoe back into the living room. A shadow moves across the window next to the front door.
“I’ve got a gun!” I shout. “Leave or I’ll use it!”
A loud, derisive male laugh cuts through the air. The knob rattles again, but this time it’s accompanied by the squeak of metal on metal. He’s using a crowbar to jimmy the door.
Tedward flees to the back of the house. Adrenaline floods my veins. There’s only one choice I have now. Racking the gun, I aim for where I imagine a man’s chest would be, and fire through the door. The man lets out an explosive curse, but not a yelp of pain. I pull the trigger a second time. There’s a muffled crash and a thud, and then the pound of running footsteps off into the night.
My heart is hammering hard in my chest as I drop to my knees. The gun clatters to the floor next to me. I suck in deep breaths, concentrating so hard on calming myself that at first, I don’t hear the rumble of the engine that signals my brother has arrived.
“Gigi!” he shouts as he thunders up the walk. “Gigi!”
Stumbling to a stand, I unlock the door and fling it open. Connor takes my front steps in one bound and grabs me by the shoulders. “You okay?”
“Yeah, they’re gone.” I glance both ways down my street. “Did you see them?”
“Fuck! No.”
“You must have just missed them.” I bend down to pick up the crowbar at our feet. “They were trying to get in with this.”
“You keep saying they. How many were there?”
“Maybe just one. I just heard a man’s voice.”
“Son of a bitch.” Connor takes the crowbar from me and grips it tightly, looking like he wishes he could swing it at someone. “Any idea who it could have been?”
“Come on in.” Connor follows me inside. I tell him to sit, then go to the kitchen and grab the switchblade from the drawer. I return to the living room, handing it to him. “When I came home today, this was sticking out of my front railing.”
Con sets the crowbar down beside him on the couch and takes the knife from me.
“Weird,” he mutters. “Doesn’t look like a blade a guy would carry.”
“Yeah. At first, I was wondering whether it was some weird gift or something.” I hesitate. “Con, you remember Dylan? The guy who —”
“I remember,” he says, cutting me off. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… He’sgone, right? Because this feels like something he would do.”
Connor shakes his head. “The Dylan situation was permanently resolved.”
An engine comes roaring down the street. Through my window, I see a truck squeal to a halt in front of my house. “What the hell?” I exclaim.
Connor stands. “I called Mack for backup, just in case. That must be him.”
Seconds later, there’s pounding at the door. Then Mack appears, filling the doorway with his large frame. He’s wild-eyed, looking like he’s ready to tear someone’s head off. When he sees us standing in the living room, the wildness in his eyes goes down a fraction.
“What happened?” he asks, his eyes locking on me. “Jesus, G, are you okay?”