Page 6 of The Handyman

My whole chest resonates with the sound.

He's walking through the dark like he can see, his footsteps moving toward the back door. The sound gets quieter and stops.

The back door opens. Rain gets louder—a roar of wind and water—then muffled again.

Mason's outside, and I'm alone in the dark.

The house is big when the lights are on. In the dark, it's enormous. The kitchen feels like it extends farther than it should. The hallway beyond is a black void. The ceilings feel higher. The rooms I can't see might as well be caverns.

For the record, I do not scare easily. I'm not the type who flinches at my own shadow, but I'm also not the bravest soul. No, sir.

I sit on the bar stool and wait. My tailbone is numb from sitting, but I stay put because Mason said so. Lightning cracks across the sky—white light through the glass for a split second, then darkness again. In the flash, I see the outline of the island, the shape of the cabinets, the hallway stretching into nothing. I definitely do not see a masked man with a machete staring at me.

Oh God, wait a damn minute.

My books.

The study. Ground floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on every wall. My romance novels, my psych textbooks, my memoirs, the first edition of The Little Prince my grandmother gave me when I was sixteen.

The study has windows that face the yard. Big windows. Windows that swing open.

I left them open this morning. Opened them to let the breeze in while I was reading, and I didn't close them because I was packing for the Bahamas, and then Mason showed up, and I forgot. I’ve been a little forgetful recently.

If the windows are still open, rain is pouring directly onto my desk. My reading chair. My shelves.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Mason told me to stay in the kitchen.

But…

The study is down the hall. Twenty steps. Maybe thirty. I can make it there and back in under a minute. I just need to close the windows.

I slide off the bar stool.

The hallway is darker than the kitchen. So much darker. My hands trail along the wall as I move—smooth paint under my fingertips, the dining room doorframe, then smooth paint again.

The hardwood floor is cold under my bare feet. Finally, I feel the entry to the study and step inside.

I know this room by feel. Leather chair to my left. Desk ahead, near the windows. Bookshelves on every wall, spines I could recite from memory.

With what little light I get from each flash, I check the ceiling above the bookshelves. Dry. No water stains. No drips. Oh, thank God. My shoulders drop, my hands unclench.

Swinging my gaze to the windows, I freeze,

Both windows by the desk are open. Wide open. Rain is coming in sideways, driven by the wind. The desk surface is wet. The hardwood floor in front of the windows is a puddle—water pooling, spreading toward the edge of the rug.

I cross the room fast and grab the first window. The frame is slick, and my fingers slip on the sodden wood. I yank it closed and flip the latch. The second window is stuck. Wood swollen from the rain. I pull with both hands, my shoulder braces against the frame. It gives an inch, then another, and slams shut. I latch it.

The rain stops coming in. The room goes quiet except for the muffled storm outside the glass.

I turn away from the windows and breathe a sigh of relief. My right foot hits the puddle on the hardwood, and with no traction, no grip, my leg goes out from under me. I grab for the desk edge and miss; my hand catches nothing but air.

I screech as my feet fly out from under me, and I hit the floor.

My tailbone takes the impact, and pain shoots up my spine. Did I just die from that fall? I sit there, legs splayed, the back of my shorts soaked, my hands stinging, my tailbone throbbing.

"Ow." I freeze, not tempting movement to provide evidence of any serious damage.