Chapter Eighteen

Nola Reynolds

There was something big happening outside. There had to have been. It was the second time I was hearing someone scream followed by the noise of footfalls receding.

I was still sitting with my legs tucked in under me, watching the mouth of the dresser, my good hand angled to strike should that thing pop out when the first of the wind filtered through the open window and the bright bulb of a ghastly idea hit me like a freight train.

“Shit, fuck this.” I croaked, tentatively placing my socked feet on the cool stone of the cave room before zapping across the threshold like the floor was lava, turning back again to look at the dresser.

I was almost certain the tension that wired my body straight would have been enough to light up the whole of Illinois because I was wound tighter than a cobra ready to strike.

Had the jewel box always been pushed to the forefront of the dresser like that?

I could have sworn something was different, but I didn't have time to think about it.

If