Chapter 2 - The Sound of the Lock
The police cruiser pulled away from the curb twenty minutes later. Harold had handled them with the smooth, folksy charm he reserved for men with badges. He called them "officer," asked about their shift captains, and explained with a self-deprecating chuckle that his divorced stepdaughter had suffered an emotional breakdown over personal finances.
"Family business, you know how it is," Harold had said on the front porch, clapping one officer on the shoulder. "Things get heated, voices get raised. No harm done. We’re working through it."
The younger officer had looked past Harold’s shoulder, right at me standing in the dim foyer. He had noticed my trembling hands and the dust still clinging to the knees of my pants. "Ma'am? Everything all right here?"
Harold had turned slightly, just enough for me to see the dead, warning chill settle into his eyes. My mother was standing right behind him, wringing her apron into damp knots, silently pleading with me through her tears to keep the peace.
"I'm fine," I had lied, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. "Just an argument."
Now, the cruiser was gone. The front door clicked shut. The deadbolt slid home with a heavy, final *thud*.
Harold didn't yell. That was the thing people who didn't live with him didn't understand. Harold was at his most terrifying when his voice dropped into an even, measured whisper. He turned around, resting his hands on his hips.
"You embarrassed this family," he said.
"Mrs. Carter called them, not me," I replied, backing up until my shoulder blades hit the hallway wall.
"Mrs. Carter wouldn't have looked twice if you hadn't put on a dramatic performance in the yard," Tara piped up from the living room sofa, her legs curled under her, thumb scrolling through her phone. "Honestly, Mara, you're pathetic. Acting like someone was actually going to hit you. You just wanted attention."
"I sent my own money to my grandmother," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "She couldn't afford her heart medication this month. She needed two hundred dollars. It has nothing to do with this house."
Harold walked toward me, stopping barely six inches away. The smell of cheap aftershave and stale coffee rolled off him. "Everything under this roof has to do with this house. You eat our food. You run the air conditioning while you sit in that bedroom playing teacher on your computer. You cost money."
"I pay you three hundred dollars a month for that tiny spare room! We agreed on that!"
"The agreement changed the moment you decided to invite the Savannah Police Department into my front yard," Harold whispered. He reached out and tapped the center of my chest with a blunt, heavy forefinger. "Effective tonight, rent is six hundred. Cash. On the first of every month."
My breath caught. "Six hundred? That's half of what I make tutoring! I'm trying to save for a security deposit on an apartment!"
"Then I guess you'll be staying here a little longer," Tara said, letting out a cruel giggle from the couch. "Unless you want to go live in your Honda."
"Harold, please," my mother whimpered, stepping out of the kitchen. "Six hundred is too much. She’s trying to get back on her feet after Ethan..."
"Helen," Harold said without turning his head. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't use an angry tone. He just said her name.
My mother stopped mid-sentence. She closed her mouth, looked down at the linoleum, and retreated back to the stove where a pot of water was beginning to boil over.
"Six hundred," Harold repeated to me. "And starting tomorrow, the Wi-Fi router gets turned off at eight in the morning and back on at five in the evening. If you want to use the internet for your little classes, you can go sit at the library with the rest of the bums."
"You can't do that. I teach students across the country in different time zones!"
"I own the router. I pay the utility bill. Try me." Harold turned his back on me, walking toward his leather recliner. "Now get out of my sight. And wash that filth off your pants before you sit on anything in this house."
I didn't say another word. I turned and practically ran up the narrow, creaking staircase to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. I shut the heavy wooden door, turned the brass lock, and slid down against the wood until I was sitting on the floor, pulling my knees tightly against my chest.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text from an unknown number.
*I saw what happened through the fence. I'm keeping my gate unlocked tonight. If you need a safe place to sleep, come through the back hedge. - Ethel Carter.*
I stared at the glowing screen in the dark room, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and cutting hot tracks through the dust on my cheeks. I wasn't entirely alone. But as I heard Harold’s heavy footsteps pacing beneath the floorboards, a dark, cold realization took root inside my chest.
May you like
Harold wasn't just trying to control me. He was trying to break me until I had no money, no confidence, and nowhere left to run. If I didn't find a way out soon, I would end up just like my mother—a ghost haunting Harold Briggs’s hallway, waiting for permission to breathe.
***
