“Morons with knives,” Rose retorts, her brows pinching in anxiety. She taps her heel repeatedly on the floor.
Someone shouts “BOO!” at the top of the staircase.
Trying to be creepy, they c**k their gargoyle head, masked and empty-handed. Police should be here soon. Maybe in a couple minutes. We have no time to block every exit, but if I grab one, he’ll rat out his friends.
“I have this,” I tell them. I can barely meet Lily’s gaze without all of my muscles coiling—a natural instinct to shield her. To ensure that no one will touch her. Or my son. But I have to do this.
As I force myself away from her side, Lily scoots closer to her sister. Bouncing Moffy in her arms. For some reason, I expect Connor to distrust me, to step in. To take control of the situation. But he gives me a single nod and then whispers to Rose in French. He zips Rose’s fur coat, hiding their daughter beneath it.
I attempt to exhale the rock in my chest. It’s nearly impossible. I just head to the banister, the staircase tall and wide, and the teenager towers above me at the top. His red Vans match the ones I wear. I scrutinize his lanky frame, his gray jeans, black crew neck and dark blue gargoyle mask.
With about twenty stairs separating us, the teenager slowly extends his arm and points at me. He thinks he can freak me out.
He can’t. “It’s not going to happen,” I tell him flatly. I’ve never been frightened of horror movies. Never been terrified of the dark. I’ve always considered myself a bigger monster than every creature on Halloween.
In my life, I’ve only ever been in peril when I feel like I’m losing Lily. Mentally, physically, entirely. But these teenagers aren’t going to hurt her or my son tonight.
I’m not even entertaining the idea.
It’s just me and him right now.
He takes two steps down, bridging the gap between us. And then he tilts his head, slowly. The banging and clattering upstairs suddenly dies down. And I realize that his friends have gathered on the top of the staircase behind him. I count five bodies.
One pats their friend’s shoulder and gestures to the hallway, antsy to leave. The friend waves him off and stays put.
“You want to know what I see?” I say, a bitter taste rising in my throat. I want to hate them. But I just can’t. I hate their choices. I hate that they’ve broken into my house and terrified everyone. But I can’t hate them.
“What?” the closest one asks, his voice muffled behind the mask. I can’t tell if he’s Garrison, the one who’s been the most vocal with me. He cranes his neck over his shoulder and whispers something to his friend, his fingers nervously curling into a fist.
I step nearer, my hand skimming the railing as I ascend the staircase. “I see five teenagers who are going to spend a lifetime regretting this night.” As soon as I pick up my pace, they curse and the guy sprints back up the stairs, joining his friends as they rush down the hallway.
I run after them.
“Go, go, go!!” they shout at each other, passing Jane and Moffy’s nursery.
“Head for the back staircase!” another yells, banging into a picture frame on the wall. They have maybe five feet on me.
Before they reach the corner of the hall, the closest guy trips over his own two feet, his red shoes, a size too big. I have a minor flashback, of the last time I chased these teenagers down the dimly lit street. He struggles to stand, but I grip his black shirt. As he flails out towards his friends, I yank him back to me, knotting his tee around my fist.
“LET ME GO!” he shouts with more alarm.
His friends hesitate by the corner of the hall. The police sirens are audible in the distance. The cops might even be parking in the driveway.
“I warned you,” I grit. “I told you that we’d press charges this time.”
“We need to go,” one of the other guys says. “I’m not going to jail, man.”
“Neither am I,” another says.
The guy in my clutch thrashes. “DON’T LEAVE ME!” he screams. “YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME!” Fear trembles his voice, and his so-called friends disappear around the corner, sealing his fate.
He’s shorter than me, thinner. I easily lift him by the waist and carry him towards the staircase, even as he fights against me. “It was a f**king joke!” He keeps repeating, can’t you take a joke?!
My stomach overturns and I pause at the top of the staircase. I firmly grip his wrists behind his back. “That’s funny,” I say dryly. “Really funny. Destroying someone’s shit. Hilarious stuff.” And then I pull off his mask.
My mouth falls some.
The red hair is familiar, one of the guys I met at Superheroes & Scones. But he’s not Garrison. His face is splotched red with anger, and I push him forward so he heads downstairs. When we veer into the living room, my pulse heightens a shot.
I scan Lily, who leans her ass on the couch. Without her jacket, I notice her reddened arm, like she’d been scratching. Dammit, Lil. Nausea churns, but I focus on Moffy in his blue onesie. His glassy eyes seem to connect with mine, and he outstretches his arms, squirming like he’d prefer to be held by me right now. Lily tries to comfort him, refitting his mini-Wampa cap that he smacks off his head. Like Jane, he’s inconsolable.
“You little penis,” Rose curses.
For some reason, I think she’s insulting me. But her penetrating yellow-green eyes are planted on the redhead in my clutch.
“Where are your friends?” Rose almost shouts at him like he’s under interrogation.
The redhead presses his thin lips shut.
Rose spins on her heels and begins marching to the backdoor. “We need to find his friends quickly.” Since Connor has Jane, she must feel free to chase the rest of the teenagers. Problem is: she’s in heels. And she’s Rose. Anyone with two feet can outrun her, including her seven-year-old niece.
“Yeah, you do that,” I tell Rose. “Fly in your magic bubble, Glenda.”
“Shut. Up. Loren.” She huffs as she gets ten feet from Connor. And then he catches up to her, and he hooks his arm around her waist.
“They’re gone, darling.” He tugs her to his body.
“Richard—”
“You can’t run after them,” Connor says. “But he’ll rat out his friends.”
The redhead lets out a pissed laugh. “Like hell, you prick.”
Connor’s lip tics, and he straightens up, his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders while he holds Jane. She cries into his white button-down, soaking the shirt.
In a controlled voice, he says, “Burglary is a felony. In case the severity escapes you, I’ll clarify. You will now have severe trouble obtaining a job and applying to colleges. That Ivy League you dreamed about is now scratching you off their lists. And inside your social circle, you better hope you have loyal friends. Because those that care about status will write you off just as quickly as everyone else. You’re a social carp, a bottom feeder. You take the meager scraps that the more fortunate hand out to you.”
Rose opens her mouth to pipe in, hopefully not to call him a penis again. I wait for her retort, but her lips tighten closed and her shoulders constrict. She cautiously looks to Connor.
I frown and inspect the redhead.
He’s crying.
His eyes redden as tears streak his face. If I was more callous, I’d feel good right about now. I’d feel justified in his pain. He f**ked with us for a while. He deserves this, right? But the pity that surfaces belongs to a guy who’s been there. Who’s hated everyone and everything. Who just wanted to go and drown.