#eghh

You listen to him descend the halls, opening cupboards and doors. He’s been talking to himself, some of it directed at you, searching for you through your house. You’d seen the police cruiser pull up to your empty driveway and nestle in as if he lived here. You’d seen him get out the cruiser, sunglasses blocking his leering gaze and a lit cigarette between his teeth. He’d seen you, too. Undressed you with his eyes even through your window and watched you duck down and pray he hadn’t.

No time (or sense) to bolt through the backdoor, you’d shoved yourself under the bed, a hand clamped over your mouth. Even if your husband came home right this second, what could he do? For fuck's sake, he worked in accounting. In the best-case scenario where this rogue cop doesn’t shoot him, it’s still your husband’s word against a respected officer.

and then this disjointed piece at the end that wasn't properly connected to anything else BUUUUT I didn't want to ignore it.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?”

Coyle’s head snaps to the locked bedroom door, tensing up over you and clamping his hand over your mouth, nearly pressing your nostrils shut in the process. The voice calls out again, and you think you hear something like a briefcase being set down in the hallway. Relief sparks inside you, which is quickly washed away with overwhelming despair. Your husband, who in recent weeks you’d begun to suspect was more fond of Officer Coyle than he was of you, has come home. Coyle’s smile falters only slightly, then returns just as wide as he’s come to the same realization that you have.