Page 29 of When the Night Comes Knocking

Whitmore laughs, a hollow, dead sound. “Tell me about it. Speaking of, you and your family have a happy Thanksgiving. I don’t know about you, but I always devour nearly a whole pumpkin pie myself.”

Jane presses a hand over her mouth, certain he can hear her heart about to explode as the officer on the line returns friendly sentiments. Whitmore tosses the radio across the passenger seat, and it clatters down on top of her. He flips down the visor and eyes himself in the small mirror, flashing a wide, bright smile.

He shoves open the driver’s-side door just as Jane’s phone vibrates in her back pocket—the new alarm she set for the birth control pills she had recently started.

She fumbles the phone out, swiping across the screen blindly. The air in the car feels heavy enough to crush her as she closes her eyes and waits for the death she somehow cheated months before.

The leather seat squeaks as Whitmore turns. He sits there in perfect silence, that wide smile plastered onto his face beneath the scraggly mustache.

Somewhere in the lot, there’s a decisive click—the sound of something locking into place. Languidly, Whitmore steps out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. Inside, the cruiser becomes engulfed in a ringing, terrible quiet, and despite the cold air, there is sweat dripping down Jane’s back as she gasps for breath.

“I almost forgot about you,” he announces from outside. “Looks like the peanut gallery chose to as well.”

Jane listens as his boots crunch across the parking lot, trying to gauge his distance from the cruiser. His voice booms out with a prophetic projection. “You really can’t count on anyone these days, can you?”

Jane sits up quietly, peering out the window to where Whitmore stands over the spot where Sheila used to be, eyeing the pile of leaves sticky and clumped together with blood.

“You know, the thing about blood trails is they always come to an end,” he says. That crooked smile gleams again as his eyes move across the path of dripping red in the dirt leading to the other side of Jackson’s Jeep. “Though I suppose the same could be said about everything.”

Jane flings off the jacket before pushing open the passenger-side door. She falls out of the car, scrambling in the dirt as Jackson’s body is tossed away from the Jeep. He lands with a hard thud as several gunshots ring out.

“Shit,” Jane hisses.

From the other side of the Jeep, another string of gunshots cracks against the night in loud, stinging pops. Whitmore’s screams seem to thrash around in his throat in a tug-of-war, until they go up several octaves. The Mimic’s sharp screech takes over, piercing through Jane’s skull as she covers her ears and curls toward the ground.

When she peeks back up, Sheila is crawling around the front of the Jeep. “He-help! It’s coming!” she cries out.

“Jane! Come on!” a voice shouts. Thomas stands in the store’s open doorway. He takes another step forward, shouting her name again until her legs finally move. She sprints out from behind the cruiser as Jackson stumbles up from the ground, moving to grab Sheila.

He slides the officer’s arm up farther around his shoulder, trying to hurry toward the store, but her leg keeps giving out.

Jane pauses when Sheila cries out in pain, nearly collapsing to the ground. She is about to run toward them, when Thomas closes the distance to Jackson in a few quick strides. “Get inside,” he yells at Jane.

He slides his left arm around Sheila’s other side, hoisting her up.

Jane stumbles through the store’s doorway. The bright overheads burn at her retinas, and her legs feel close to giving way, though she doesn’t breathe until Thomas and Jackson maneuver inside, Sheila’s limp body hanging between them. Kimi pulls the door shut, flipping the lock as Ashley and Jim push in with the table.

“She’s really hurt,” Jackson says, out of breath and bleeding from his side as he and Thomas lower Sheila to the floor. “It’s her right leg,” he adds, then his eyes frantically scan the group. When they land on Jane, she uncoils at their bright flash of relief.

“Let me see,” says Ashley, shoving around them and dropping down to the floor, where Sheila squeezes her eyes shut against the lights before crying out sharply as Ashley tries to stabilize her leg.

Thomas tugs Jane back. “Are you okay?” he asks. The concern lacing his features is startling, tugging her free from the grips of hazy adrenaline.

She nods, wrapping her shaking arms around her torso as though she might be forced to curl back into a ball and hold her breath again at any moment. The flash of Whitmore’s reptilian smile feels forever singed behind her eyes.

“I wasn’t able to radio for help,” she says. “He—the Mimic told the police that everything here was fine. That it was all just some big prank.” Her eyes prick with tears and she turns away, sucking in a breath to keep them at bay.

In her periphery, she sees Thomas’s face fall slightly. He takes a step toward where the others have moved into a jagged circle surrounding Sheila. He pauses, glancing back as Jane swipes her palm across her cheek. “It’s alright,” he says, over his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

For a small moment, she really believes him.

In front of them, Ashley eyes where they used Sheila’s utility belt as a tourniquet. A pair of silver handcuffs dangles off from it, clinking against the ground as Ashley tightens the belt further. “The belt was good thinking,” she mutters, before tugging off her scarf. She balls it up and places it beneath Sheila’s head.

The officer’s eyelids flutter rapidly, though she seems to be forcing them to remain open, trying to account for everyone standing above her.

Jackson grips Sheila’s hand, squeezing tightly. “We’re going to help you,” he promises, nodding as Winnie brushes up close to him and sniffs along his side, where spots of blood have stained his flannel shirt.

Sheila’s dazed eyes shift from his and land on Jane’s. The officer’s mouth opens on a word before her eyes roll shut.