Carol Post - Buried Memories

He clicked off the flashlight and squinted into the night, worry coiling in his gut. But beyond the glow of the porch light, everything was black. Clouds obscured most of the stars, and the sliver of moon he’d seen early yesterday morning wouldn’t be visible until just before daylight.

He retraced his steps, then slipped into the trees bordering her yard. A twig snapped beneath his foot, the sound amplified in the silence. He hesitated. He had a gun. It just wasn’t with him. With his flashbacks and nightmares, he’d figured it was best to leave his weapon with a friend for safekeeping. Only a week and a half had passed, and he was already rethinking that decision.

Staying within the tree line, he continued to move away from the road, eyes on the carport. Once he was even with her truck, he stopped, listening. The skin on his arms prickled. Someone was there, or had just been there.

Dropping to his hands and knees, he clicked on the light and shone it under the truck, then swept the beam side to side in an expanding arc. Seeing no one, he sprinted to the back of the truck, then crept around it.

When he shone the light on the door of her house, he heaved a sigh of relief. It was undisturbed. He shook the tension from his shoulders. Of course it was undisturbed. No one was getting past the lock he’d installed. At least not without an ax or sledgehammer.

So maybe no one had been there. Maybe the light had burned out. He reached into the fixture. The bulb was still hot. It was also loose. He rotated it a quarter turn and light flooded the carport.

His stomach tightened as he stepped back from the door. His first instinct had been right. Someone had been prowling around her house in the dark. He scanned the side of the house. The laundry room window was the only jalousie left. According to Nicki, the prior owner had changed all the others to single-hungs.

Icy fingers traced a path down the back of his neck. Two of the four-inch by three-foot panes of glass stood against the house. The metal tracks that had held them were warped and bent outward. And the intruder had started on a third. Another thirty minutes and someone would have been inside, in spite of the locks he’d installed.

A sense of protectiveness surged through him, and he clenched his fists. Whoever wanted a piece of his longtime friend was going to have to go through him first. He stalked toward the front door, pulling out his phone as he walked.

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