"Emma? Is something wrong?"
The sound that stopped me happens again. It's coming from the back of the house, a low scraping.
"I thought I heard something," I tell Eric, lowering my voice slightly as I move toward the sound.
"What is it?"
"It sounds like someone's trying to open my back door."
"With you inside?"
"The lights are all off," I explain.
The sound makes my skin burn, and it's harder to get my breaths in and out of my lungs. I force my feet to keep moving toward the back door even though the memories in the back of my mind tell me to run out the front. I fight the flashes. I fight the sound of crackling flames and the bite of cold. Jake's face forms in front of my eyes, and I squeeze them closed to melt him away.
"Can you see anybody?" Eric asks.
It makes me open my eyes and continue toward the back door. The sound is louder as I move toward the kitchen, but it goes quiet when I get into the room.
"No," I tell him. "I don't hear it anymore. But I know someone was there."
"You need to call the police."
I head toward my bedroom, but a figure at the open front door stops me. Gasping, I stumble back a step before the face registers. I let out a breath and lift my voice a little louder to get over Eric's frantic rambling.
"I don't need to call the police. They're already here," I say.
"What?"
"It's Sam," I tell him.
"Tell him I'm going to kick his ass if he does that again." He pauses. "Actually, no. Don't tell him that."
I give a shaky laugh. "Give me a call if you find anything, okay?"
"Want me to see if I can snag you a reservation at my exclusive restaurant?" he asks.
"Soon."
"Night, Em."
Chapter Eleven
My hand shakes as I end the call. I try to stuff my phone into my pocket before I remember my stretchy leggings don't have pockets. Sam closes the front door and comes toward me.
"Emma?" he asks.
My body sways slightly when he grabs my shoulders, and I have the urge to sit down, but I shake it off.
"What were you doing?" I ask.
Sam narrows his eyes at me. "What? What do you mean? I told you I was coming tonight after I finished up for the day. You said it wouldn't be too late. Did you forget?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I knew you were coming. But why did you go to the back door?"
His eyes narrow. "The back door? I didn't go to the back door."
My stomach sinks. "You weren't at the back door a few minutes ago?"
"No. I just got here. Someone was at your back door?"
He moves me out of his way and walks around me to go into the kitchen to the back door. I follow close behind him, going back over what I heard in my mind.
“I thought I heard someone. I was on the phone with Eric, and it sounded like someone was scraping at the back door. I went in there, but it stopped,” I tell him.
Sam moves aside the curtain hanging over the glass portion of the back door and looks around.
“You didn't see anyone?” he asks.
“No. The back porch light burned out, and I haven't replaced it. In the dark, I couldn't see any silhouette against the curtain.”
He turns the lock and opens the door. Taking a step out onto the small back porch, he looks around again.
"You need better locks on this door," he mutters. "Thumb turns like this aren't secure. You need a deadbolt that requires a key. I'll get one at the hardware store tomorrow and put it in for you."
"I can change my own locks," I snap at him. He doesn’t even react. "It's not like it would be the first time."
He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark.
"Come look at this," he says.
I step outside with him, and he points to the brick side of the porch. One of the bricks is out of place. It's not much, just barely pulled forward. The difference is so slight no one would notice it unless they knew to look for it. But Sam does. And so do I.
"Is there still a key there?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. There hasn't been a key hidden in there since the management company took over and started renting out the house. At least, not as far as I know. I checked it when I first got here, just to see if anybody else used my old hiding place, but it was empty. It could be out of place just because I didn't push it back in all the way.”
“Or it could be someone who would know to look for the key behind that brick,” he muses. “I'm going to call the station. A couple of the boys can come out here and investigation, make sure it's all on record and everything.”
I shake my head and take hold of his hand, pulling him toward me.
"No. We don't need to do all that," I tell him.
"Emma, someone was trying to get into your house," he says.
"Maybe," I admit. "But I didn't see anything. Neither did you, and you were right out front. Maybe my mind really is slipping. Come on, let's just go inside."
He doesn't seem completely convinced, but he lets me guide him in and lock the door behind us.
"At least let me change that light for you. Do you have any bulbs?" he asks.
"If I do, they're in the cabinet above the washing machine."
He nods and heads for the laundry room as I make another cup of coffee. The half one still left in the living room is cold by now, and a chill has settled into my bones. Now that Sam's here, I don't really need to caffeine to keep me humming through the night, but I need to warm up from the inside. Sam fixes the light and comes into the living room, sitting beside me where I'm curled under a blanket in the corner of the couch.
"Are you going to tell me what that crack about your mind slipping was supposed to mean?" he asks.
I take a sip of my coffee. "Nothing."
"It's obviously something if you think you were conjuring someone trying to get into your house," he says.
"I had to go up to the management office today, and I saw Pamela Bryan," I finally explain.
"Welsh. It's Pamela Welsh, now. I guess. At least it was before they got divorced."
"Well, whatever her last name is, she took it upon herself to let me know people think I came back here because I lost my mind," I tell him.
"What?" he asks.
"Yep," I say with a slow nod. "Apparently, the word around the old grapevine is I slunk back home to lick my wounds and piece my shattered sanity back together. I'm just too fragile to keep working with the Bureau, which is why I haven't left."
"Was she wearing a skintight leopard print dress and holding a cigarette holder at the time she told you that?" Sam asks with a glint in his eye.
"As enthralling as that visual of the suburbanite gossip was, I think you're missing the point," I say.
He slides closer to me. "No, I'm not. But you don't need to listen to her. People talk. It's what they do. Especially when you've lived in the same place for your entire life and might have the slight notion that nothing actually exists beyond the borders."
"I wouldn't know how that feels," I say.
Sam strokes a piece of hair behind my ear, then lets his fingertips trace down the side of my face.
"I know. But listen to me. Pamela is no different now than she was in high school. Besides, since when does Emma Griffin care what anyone thinks of her?"
"It's not that I care what she or any of them think of me," I insist.
"It's just you think they might be right?" he completes the thought. I stare back at him, and he shakes his head. "Do you know how often I get called out to houses because people think they hear someone trying to get in? And these are people who have never gone through anything scarier than watching a spooky Halloween marathon while eating a mummy cupcake filled with raspberry blood."