Exposure - By Brandilyn Collins Page 0,3
her suitcase into the hall, she closed the door behind her. The carpet hushed her footsteps as she crept toward the kitchen. Every step she took gave her more courage. No changing her mind now. She couldn’t bear to face Gail’s anger if she was caught.
Reaching the end of the hall Hannah turned into the kitchen. She couldn’t get to the front door without being spotted. On the linoleum she slowed, picking up her sneakered feet so they wouldn’t squeak. The rubber wheels on her suitcase made no sound.
At the door to the garage Hannah held her breath as she rotated the knob. Holding the door open with her body, she picked her suitcase up over the threshold. Inch by inch she closed the door. She turned the outside knob, brought the door into place, then slowly released the handle.
Hannah wiped her forehead and listened. No sound from the kitchen.
She grabbed the handle on her suitcase and scurried past two cars to the side garage door. Hannah slipped through it quickly.
Fresh air slapped her in the face. It wasn’t that chilly, just dark here between her house and the neighbor’s. Hannah drew in her shoulders and surveyed the sidewalk out front. Streetlamps would light her way. Please, please, no one see me. Especially some policeman driving by. She’d be stopped for sure.
Heart beating in her ears, Hannah clutched her suitcase and ventured into the night.
THREE
Kaycee jumped back from the table, casting crazed looks all around. A dead man. That mangled, bloodied face . . .
We see you.
Her worst fear come true.
Kaycee tore across the kitchen and grabbed her keys. She rammed out the back door and hurtled to her car. With its engine running, she barely waited for the garage door to open before screeching backwards, down her driveway, out onto the street. Gripping the steering wheel, she punched the accelerator and flew down South Maple. She skidded right onto Main and down a block. Kaycee carved out a parking space in front of Casa de José Mexican Restaurant. She jumped from her car, leaving keys in the ignition, and raced across the deserted street toward the white stone building that housed the Wilmore police station. Inside the entrance she veered left past the Ale-8-One and Pepsi machines and pounded on the locked door to the offices. She pulled back, gasping. Kaycee caught sight of herself in the one-way mirror — her face white, her kinky-curled red hair wilder than ever. Her light blue eyes glazed with shock.
The police station door shoved open to reveal Officer Mark Burnett. Great, of all the policemen it would have to be thirty-five-year-old Mark. Last month he’d accused her of “living off other people’s fears” through writing her column. She’d known he was just being defensive. “Who’s There?” had apparently struck a nerve about his own private fear. Not that he’d ever admit reading it. But the memory still stung.
“Kaycee.” Mark pulled her inside the station. “What is it?”
Her tongue tied. “I . . . there’s a camera in my house . . . a dead man.”
“A dead man in your house?”
“No, he’s in the camera.”
“A dead man in a camera?”
“No-no, in a picture.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, turning them into their signature spread V. His deep brown eyes narrowed. “Who’s the dead man?”
“I’ve never seen him before. He’s all bloodied and . . . dead!”
A nonplused expression flitted across Mark’s squared face. His lips, usually turned up at the corners, drew in. He knew her too well — all the Wilmore policemen did. In the past year since Mandy’s death, Kaycee had run to the police four times, convinced someone was lurking around her house.
Now make that five.
“This time it’s for real, Mark. I walked into my house, and the camera was just there — out of nowhere. And it took a picture of me!”
“How’d it do that?”
“I don’t know, it just did! And the picture said, ‘We see you.’ ”
“Who sees you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, okay, calm down.”
Calm down? “I’m not being crazy. It really happened.”
“All right, I hear you.” He nudged her back out the door. “I’ll go with you to your house. Take a look around.”
The thought of going back to that house, even with a policeman . . . “Okay. Thanks.”
“Where’s your car?” Mark held the outside door open as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Light from a tall black lamppost on their left shone golden on his brown hair.
“Over there.” She pointed toward the restaurant and its yellow curb. Mark