Home alone, the sound of breaking glass yanked Carly from sleep. Icy tendrils of fear prickled the nape of her neck, teasing the wisps of hair and standing them on end.
The only light in her room was moonlight filtered through curtains at the window. It was still very dark and Carly realized she had to trust what she could hear —someone was in the house.
Perspiration beaded her forehead, little runnels slipping down between her breasts, soaking the front of her nightgown. This was no time to give in to fear. She reached for the gun under her pillow and held her breath, focusing on only her hearing.
(There. There it is again).
The intruder was coming up the stairs. She heard the steps creak as he stepped on each one. Carly grabbed her cellphone from the bedside table, put it in the pocket of her PJs and tip-toed to the doorway to listen.
(Hushhh … serial killer, rapist? Stop that! Keep fear out of it)
In the hallway, a shot rang out. The bold flash pierced the darkness and was instantly blinding. Her ears, first stunned to silence, were now ringing. Carly froze in place in the hushed gloom, eyes trying to adjust to moonlight again.
The air was thick with the smell of burnt gunpowder and blood and it was nauseating. The smoke clung to her like a shroud as she imagined gray wisps rising from the trembling .38 like on TV.
Fearing the dark, but more afraid of what she would see by turning on a light, she dialed.
“Nine-One-One ... what is your emergency?”
“I’ve just shot an intruder ...
… help me please."