Page 36 of When the Night Comes Knocking

Ashley shakes her head and tries to lift the mug of water to the officer’s lips again, but Sheila turns her face away, fighting to keep her eyes open. “Inside. It came inside,” she repeats, squeezing Ashley’s hand painfully hard as her eyes flutter. “It got him—that young man. The one in the flannel.”

Thirteen

a hero’s will is tested.

Winnie is whining again. The German shepherd continually bumps between Jane and Jackson, glancing around the store like a lost child. Jane understands the feeling—wants to give herself over to it completely and wrap the fear around her body like a favorite blanket.

Jackson walks close beside her, flashing reassuring smiles every so often that don’t quite reach his hazel eyes. She can tell the events of the night have started to wear on him in the way his broad shoulders are slightly hunched inward and his focus keeps darting back to the store’s entrance as if he’s expecting the doors to blow open at any moment.

Per Kimi’s instruction, they turn down aisle nine to find a variety of household and outdoor items. Jane begins searching along the displays of various kitchen supplies, but then she notices Jackson has paused and is staring blankly at a row of candles on the shelves.

She backtracks toward him, tugging the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “You doing okay?” she asks.

Jackson flashes that quick smile again. “I guess I’m still just trying to wrap my head around all this,” he admits. He shoves his hands into his jean pockets, sighing a bit as he faces her. “Honestly, part of me keeps thinking I’ll wake up at any moment.”

“Same,” she replies, noticing the way he seems to lean in closer toward her every time she speaks. It should make her nervous, being this close and alone with him; it should make her feel ready to flee in the way she was unable to months before.

But his hands remain to himself. His dog remains loyally at his side, ears tucked down and big eyes meeting Jane’s every so often as if to reassure her she’s safe with them—that the only monster looking to ravage her heart is the one outside.

So she allows her feet to remain in place, a foot away from his own. “Something else seems to be bothering you,” she probes carefully, watching as he runs a hand over the back of his neck.

“It’s just—I keep thinking about it, what Jim said. That the Mimic is drawn to someone in here, and how it won’t stop until it gets them.” He leans back against the nearest shelf, frowning slightly at his hiking boots. “Do you really think that could be true? That it’s already picked someone because of their guilt?”

An ache blooms in Jane’s chest, where her heart rate rapidly picks up. She forces herself to turn away, pretending to be focused on the various items along the aisle. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she says, though it comes out more like a whisper. “It’s hard to decide what’s real or not anymore,” she continues, though she can hear the way her voice wobbles around the lie.

“Sort of makes you rethink everything you know once you realize monsters actually exist,” he says, following behind her down the aisle. “Like when I was a kid and was so certain there was a boogeyman hiding in my closet, maybe there really was something in there. Maybe there was something watching me sleep all along.”

“What a cozy thought.”

The corner of his mouth raises as he shifts his eyeline from her face and points up at a miniature cast-iron skillet hanging on display. “It’s all yours,” he says.

Jane grabs it, weighing it with both hands. “Cute,” she comments, guessing it can’t be more than a few pounds. “That thing doesn’t stand a chance now.”

This time his mouth pulls into a full grin, causing the dimple in his cheek to pop. The sight of it is like a punch to Jane’s gut, and suddenly there is not enough space between them.

She takes a quick step back, swallowing hard as she tightens her grip on the skillet. The terror bubbles up swiftly, unpredictable as always and all there within arm’s reach—the dark of the basement, the smell of mildew wafting in and out of her nostrils, the fervent hands and dimpled smile.

“Hey,” says Jackson, carefully reaching out a hand. “Are you okay? You just got really pale.”

She wants to swat his hand away, to let her lungs scream out until they go hoarse. But instead she only nods. “I’m fine,” she says. “Sorry.”

“What on earth for?” he asks, letting his hand drop to rest atop Winnie’s head. “It’s not like it’s your fault this is happening to us.”

Her chest tightens like a balloon that’s been pumped full with too much air, desperate to pop. The patience in his eyes only makes her want to crumple to the ground further, until she simply drops down to her knees.

“But I think it might be,” she whispers. Tears blur her vision, though she can see that his expression remains unchanged as he moves without thought to sit down beside her.

She understands his misguided judgment—after all, he only sees an aftermath version of Jane Wilson, a timid girl with a bad haircut and a curious scar. Or perhaps he simply views her as another stray, just like Winnie had been before he plucked her out of whatever darkness leashed her. Either way, he deserves to know the truth of why he’s stuck in this nightmare, and tonight, Jane knows that the truth might be the only power she has.

So she takes a deep breath and wills her heart to calm, prepares for the empty space that will be left at her side.

“That accident that Officer Whitmore mentioned earlier?” she says, soaking up his kind gaze for a moment longer.

He gives a single nod.

“It happened because of me,” she tells him while pinching the heavy sleeves of her sweater. “I’m the reason my brother nearly died and why his dream of playing pro ball is destroyed. And I’m the reason that—” The words catch in her throat, sticking like gnarled thorns. She bites her tongue until the taste of blood coats the back of her teeth. “I’m the reason that a boy not much older than me was killed two months ago,” she admits.

Jane can’t look at him, can’t do anything but keep her eyes locked on her lap as the silence between them folds in over itself like an Ouroboros, seemingly endless. Frantic images of smeared blood and flashing police lights assault her mind in quick, movie-like succession; as always, it is Thomas’s screams that ring out as the accompanying score.