Alice Close Your Eyes. Averil Dean

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СКАЧАТЬ smooth curved glass. I press my nose to the mouth of one of the bottles and inhale. Sawdust, mixed with a briny scent that makes me think he salvaged this bottle from the beach. Together the aromas evoke a shipyard, or a seaside lumber mill. I peer through the bottleneck at the ship inside, its prow aimed right at me.

      My thoughts judder to a halt. A key clicks against the front door and slides into the lock.

      My heart leaps, stumbles, restarts. Adrenaline flashes through my limbs.

      In a second I’m out the door, skidding silently down the hall to the bedroom. I duck around the corner, run to the window and flip the latch. But the sash is fitted with a security lock that prevents it from opening more than a few inches. No sign of the key, and there won’t be time to pick the lock. I turn back to the room in dismay. The bed is low to the ground, no space underneath. No shower curtain in the attached bathroom or wardrobe against the wall. And the back door I entered through is at the other side of the house.

      Out of options, I cross the room, slip through the closet door and slide it shut. The hangers clatter as I push the clothes aside and sink to a crouch, clutching the wooden box to my chest.

      From the hallway, footsteps approach. Heavy, thudding against the hardwood floor.

      Even here, I feel exposed. In my closet, there would be places to hide: a raft of boots and sneakers, a curtain of secondhand coats, the blue plastic laundry basket in the corner, full to overflowing with sweaters and faded jeans. I could have buried myself in belongings, hidden for hours until he either left again or fell asleep. But in this half-full closet, only a thin sliding door stands between me and discovery.

      A slice of my reflection shimmers on the metal frame. My eye flashes, caught in a chink of light from the bedroom window. I ease sideways and press my back into the corner.

      The footsteps get louder and more deliberate. They cross the room to the window I left standing open. A scrape of the window frame, and the whisper of rain outside is silenced. There is a pause. Then three steps, louder.

      The grit on the bottom of his boot grinds against the floor.

      My heartbeat is crashing in my ears, pounding at the roof of my mouth. Surely he will hear it. I hold my breath, feel my eyelids stretch open, then snap together. I screw them shut and chant a silent prayer.

      Please don’t open the door. Please please please don’t open the door....

      The box in my arms tilts a little, shifting the contents. A muffled clunk from inside strikes my ears like a mallet.

      Shit. God fucking dammit.

      The door begins to slide.

      The first thing I see is a claw hammer, raised to shoulder height. Then a fist, wrapped around the handle. A man’s face. The knife’s edge of his jaw, serrated with afternoon stubble. His eyes, framed in the thick brown rims of his glasses, squinting into the darkness, then widening in surprise.

      Jack Calabrese.

      He slides the clothes aside and stares down at me.

      “What the fuck.”

      I scramble to my feet, through the rack of jeans and flannel shirts. A lock of dark hair flops over my eyes.

      “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my closet?”

      “Robbing you.” My voice is thready. I clear my throat, jerk my chin.

      His gaze falls to the box in my arms. He’s taller and more imposing than he seemed from a distance. But as he looks at me, his angry expression melts to a sort of baffled amusement, as though he’s waiting for me to explain the point of a joke. Up close, I notice an unexpected dimple that fills with shadow when he speaks and empties when he frowns, leaving only a short, thin crease to mark the place.

      I hold out the box with both hands like a guilty child. He takes it from me, looks briefly inside and sets it on the dresser.

      “You have odd taste for a thief,” he says. “Or poor judgment.”

      I step toward the door. He shifts his weight, a bare movement, but it stops me in my tracks. I glance automatically at the window. Closed and latched.

      “Don’t I know you?” he says. “From town or something?”

      “No. Look, I’m sor—”

      “Is this about Rosemary?”

      I look at him blankly. “No.”

      His gaze wanders down my body as he takes in my Pixies T-shirt, torn secondhand Levi’s. Knitted, elbow-length gloves, striped orange and blue.

      There is a light thump from the closet. A couple of shirts, dislodged from the rack, have fallen to the ground. To leave them there seems rude, so I gather them up and hang them back on the rail, smoothing the fabric, adjusting the hangers as though I can convey a benign intention by the care I take with his clothing.

      When I straighten again and face Jack Calabrese, his expression has softened to that of a cool stepfather dealing with the teenager who’s just wrecked the family car. And though I’ve dressed to inspire that reaction, just in case, his self-confidence unsettles me.

      He lays the hammer on the dresser, next to the wooden box. “Want a drink?”

      I must have heard him wrong. “A drink.”

      “Yeah.” He speaks over his shoulder as he passes through the doorway. “You look like you could use one.”

      I follow slowly, my legs weak as water, boneless, loose. Down the hallway, past the ship room. Outside, the rain has picked up, pattering against the roof, the raindrops sliding thick as wax down the windowpanes.

      He takes two glasses from the cupboard and fills them with ice. I steal a glance at the door. Now would be the time to run—make a mad dash across the room, out the door, down the road to the main street and the shortcut through the heavy woods to my house. I imagine myself there, safe and warm and locked in tight.

      But I don’t run. The same thing that drew me here keeps me rooted to the spot.

      He crosses the room and hands me the drink.

      “So, what were you looking for, exactly?” he says. “Money? Drugs?”

      “Neither, nothing.” I take a sip of fiery-cool liquid. “Just the box.”

      “That box of sentimental crap? Why?”

      “C-curiosity.”

      “About what?”

      Warmth bursts over my cheeks and seeps down my neck, and that seems to answer his question. And in a flash, I realize he’s handing me the perfect excuse—for the break-in, for everything. I see, dimly, the path before us. All I need to do is let his ego lead the way.

      He smiles. “I’m flattered. And how did you know about the box?”

      “I didn’t. At least...I mean, everyone has a box. Usually with men it’s a shoebox. Yours is...”

      “Mine СКАЧАТЬ