Chapter 9 Night Watch
1281 Words
Lily’s POV
Rain dripped from the porch roof, falling in slow, silver threads. The sound should have been peaceful, but it wasn’t. Every creak in the house felt like a stranger’s footstep. Every gust of wind pressed the old windows inward as if someone outside were pressing against the glass.
I held the phone in my shaking hand. The cops had agreed to send a car to drive by, but no lights came down the road. Maine nights were long and quiet; tonight the quiet felt like a trap.
A faint noise broke the silencewood moving in the hallway, the soft sigh of a door that had been closed.
“No,” I whispered, gripping my chest.
I moved down the hall toward Noah’s room. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs like a fist. The small night-light under his door glowed dimly. I opened it just enough to see him curled up, his toy fox clutched under his chin. He was safe.
Then another soundcloser this time.
Footsteps. Slow, careful.
Before I could scream, a hand touched my shoulder.
I spun around, my fist raised. “Don’t!”
A strong voice cut through the dark. “It’s me.”
I almost fell. “What are you doing here?” I hissed.
“I got a call from the alarm company. The back door sensor was tripped.”
“I didn’t call you,” I whispered, backing into the dim hallway light. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes moved over me, catching every tremble, every rapid breath. “You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“You’re trespassing,” I shot back. “Go.”
“I’m not leaving you like this,” he said.
I tried to steady my voice. “This isn’t your house.”
“Then tell me who else is walking around it at night.”
We both froze as another creak echoed from the kitchen.
He reached into his coat and drew out a small flashlight. “Stay behind me,” he ordered.
“I’m not”
“Stay,” he repeated, his tone so low it felt like an order.
I swallowed and nodded.
We moved down the stairs together, him a step ahead, me holding the banister. The house smelled of rain and pine. The beam of his flashlight swept across the kitchen floor. A dirty boot print gleamed on the floor near the back door.
My throat went dry. “That’s not yours,” I whispered.
“No.”
He crouched, touching the print. “Still wet.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth. “Who”
“Lock Noah’s room,” he said quietly. “Then call the police again.”
I ran upstairs, my legs shaking. When I returned, he was standing at the open back door, rain blowing in against his shoulders.
“They came in, then left,” he said. “No sign of forced entry. Someone had a key.”
I looked at him. “A key? That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” he asked. “Think.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “The staff. Volunteers. Patients’ families. Anyone could”
“Or someone who wants to scare you,” he said.
“I don’t want your theories,” I snapped. “I want you out of my house.”
He turned toward me slowly. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You’re terrified. And you still hate me more than you’re afraid.”
“I don’t hate you,” I whispered. “I just don’t know you anymore.”
Something flashed across his face, hurt, maybe anger. “You think I know myself?” he asked.
Rain lashed against the windows. The house felt like a ship about to sink.
I sat at the kitchen table and pressed my face to my hands. “I built a life to keep Noah safe. I kept every door locked. And still”
His hand rested on the back of my chair. “You’re not alone anymore,” he said.
I looked up sharply. “What are you doing?”
“Protecting you,” he said simply.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You don’t have to.”
We stared at each other. For a moment the storm faded and there was only the sound of our breaths.
I hissed, “Why did you really buy the clinic?”
His jaw tightened. “Because you’re there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have,” he said.
I felt my chest ache. “You left me.”
“I thought you used me,” he said softly.
“I never”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I know now. But three years too late.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“Maybe it changes everything,” he said.
We fell silent as a branch scraped across the window like a claw.
He walked to the sink, poured a glass of water, and gave it to me. “Drink.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re shaking,” he repeated.
I drank. The water tasted like metal.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Tell me who has a key.”
“No one,” I said.
“Someone does,” he maintained. “And if they’re bold enough to come inside while you’re here, they’re bold enough to try again.”
I pressed my hands flat on the table. “What do you want from me?”
His eyes held mine. “Everything you’ve denied me.”
My breath caught. “Don’t.”
“You think I don’t see him?” he said softly. “You think I don’t know?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Know what?”
“His eyes,” he said. “They’re mine.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Get out,” I whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not tonight.”
At that moment, the cops finally arrived. Red and blue lights splashed across the wet windows. Two officers came in, took our statements, and checked the doors. They found nothing except the dirty handprint.
When they left, the house felt even emptier.
I wrapped my sweater tighter. “You can go now,” I said.
He stayed by the opening. “Do you really want me to?”
“Yes,” I said, but my voice shook.
He looked at the stairs. “He’s asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll stay on the couch,” he said. “Just for tonight.”
“No,” I said.
“I’m not asking,” he responded.
“You can’t just”
“I can,” he said. “And I will. Until I know you’re safe.”
I closed my eyes. “This is wrong.”
“What’s wrong,” he said quietly, “is someone breaking into your house while your son sleeps upstairs.”
My head snapped up. “Don’t”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tell me, Lily. Tell me he’s not mine.”
I couldn’t move.
“Tell me,” he whispered again.
I turned away, looking at the rain streaking the glass. “Goodnight,” I said.
He breathed, long and low, and walked into the living room. I heard the couch creak as he sat down.
Upstairs, Noah stirred and muttered in his sleep.
I leaned against the doorway, shaking. The house smelled of wet dirt and his cologne.
Down the hall, the glow of the night-light spilled across the floor like a warning.
- Writer
