Let Me In by Adam Nicholls (books under 200 pages .TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Adam Nicholls
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There was a clunk as Gary exited the car, joining him at his side. They both stood in silence, leaning against the car doors as flashlight beams flooded through the dark windows of the house. Morgan’s skin crawled, like millions of bugs were nibbling through his skin and crawling over his flesh. He noticed how tense he was, his back stiffened and his shoulders hunched as he anxiously awaited a result.
And then it came.
Two gunshots from behind the house.
Morgan shot up straight.
Gary did the same. “Shit,” he spat.
Before he could question what’d happened, Morgan found his legs moving without command. He heard his name being called behind him as he sprinted toward the door, where one man remained with an outheld hand, forbidding his entry. Morgan’s instincts took over, sending him darting around the side of the house and bursting through the backyard gate. Fear blended with the cool air, shooting up his aching spine. Cold sweat dampened his forehead. His fists trembled as he ran.
When he came around the back there was a third gunshot.
Morgan froze in his tracks, grounded like a victim of stone petrification. But even looking into Medusa’s eyes couldn’t compare to the terror he experienced as an armed man—no uniform—dashed onto the back porch, searching left and right for an exit.
Until he saw Morgan.
The gun came up then, the dull metal glowing in the moonlight.
Morgan held still, not threatening a single movement. He closed his eyes and bit down on the inside of his cheeks, fear tearing through him like an icy blade. He looked away, all weight seeming to leave his body. All he saw on the backs of his eyelids was Rachel.
There were footsteps.
They were the steps of the killer as he ran into the darkness at the far end of the yard. Morgan saw this through the narrow slit of one eye. He then opened the other, confirming he was totally alone as he felt around his body for a bullet hole. There was none.
Not in him, anyway.
“We need a medic!” came a voice from inside.
No longer caring if he was allowed or not, Morgan ran inside the building with his hand feeding into his jacket for the cell phone he kept there. His mind absent, he took it out and called for an ambulance, observing the room of horrors that only vaguely resembled a kitchen.
A woman, easily in her late fifties and in terrible shape, was bleeding out by his feet. It was Lyonette Hansen, and a pool of blood oozed out of her, reaching across the stained tile floor like it was threatening to paint over the years of neglect. Morgan’s stomach turned, the voice on the phone asking which service he required, and he heard himself say “ambulance.” Although he was sure the police had already made the call.
But that wasn’t all.
Three men cleared the hallway attached to the kitchen. They fussed around each other, making way for a small blonde lady who couldn’t walk without help. They held her upright, escorting her into the back while one of the men asked Morgan to leave.
He had no choice.
Coming to, Morgan obeyed the direct command and stepped out into the cold night air. He gave the woman on the phone an address, craning his neck to scan the yard in case the killer came back to finish his work. Not that he hadn’t done enough—the woman inside was dead, and the only hope of finding Hansen was with the one woman who’d survived his wrath.
Emma Cole was alive.
For how long, he didn’t know.
Nick—or the DC Carver, as he was now being called—kept running until his feet were on fire. The rough ground stabbed at his bare soles as he sprinted down back alleys, crossing onto new paths while sirens wailed somewhere behind him. He thought he’d gotten away, but there was no way to tell for certain. Not without revealing himself from the darkness in which he now stood, panting like his lungs were about to burst.
What a night it’d truly been, he kept thinking while he stuffed the gun into the waistline of his pants. It wobbled and clunked to the ground, so he scooped it up and shoved it deep into the pocket of his sweater, pissing him off even more for not having had the chance to get dressed.
And then there was the matter of his mother.
Nick couldn’t necessarily say it’d been easy to shoot her. The shock that came with it had made his mind foggy and his legs weak, like he was five seconds from fainting. But he hadn’t fainted, had he? Quite the opposite, in fact: he’d made it out of there without a scratch on him. Save for the cuts on the soles of his feet, that was.
But she’d encouraged him.
Not just in her final moments, when she’d held her ground in front of the back door and insisted he awaited consequences for what he’d done, but in the years leading up to it. Had she protested when her boyfriend had smacked him around all those years? Had she since tried to make amends, even starting with something as simple as an apology?
The answer to both of those questions was a firm “no.”
Which was why she’d had to die.
Back there, when he’d squeezed the trigger and the room lit up for a much shorter time than it seemed, he’d almost enjoyed the way her mouth hung open in shock. She’d stood there frozen like a mannequin, assessing him with eyes that questioned if he’d really done it, and when she’d looked down and saw the small blotch of scarlet growing across her shirt, she knew.
But by then it was too late.
She’d hit the floor with a thud that both satisfied and pained him. It was the pain of guilt, though only a brief fleck. The rest was drowned out by the sound of sirens and the rush of blood in his ears as the adrenaline took over. After that, he’d had no choice but to run, leaving all he knew in a house he’d probably never see again.
He’d also had to leave her.
Emma Cole had belonged to him for a short period of time. It was something he’d fantasized about in his adolescence, spending long nights alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling while his imagination allowed him to slip off her bra. But there was more than that—that same flexible imagination showed him what it would be like for him to turn her down. Only then was there a foundation for him to claim his vengeance after humiliating him all those years ago, back when he was just a kid.
Just. A. Kid.
Nobody deserved that torment.
Especially him.
The bustle of interested citizens made a roar in the street, filling in the gaps between the commands of policemen who were still searching for him. Nick peered around the corner, flakes of wood from the fence scratching his cheek. He didn’t care—all he wanted was a peek.
It didn’t disappoint.
A crowd was forming between the police vehicles, the public demanding the latest news from the authorities. There were cries, screams, and even murmurs as Emma Cole was taken into the back of an ambulance. Nick swept his gaze across the scene as an unidentifiable emotion settled in his chest. Was it fear? Anger? The rapid tick of his heart told him it was both, but it wasn’t until he saw him that Nick truly realized.
It was anger.
Raw, uncontrollable anger.
The black investigator from the charity hall left the scene, retreating to his car with one of the detectives. He must’ve been the one to lead the police his way, Nick figured, and that only made his blood boil. Just who the hell did he think he was? This was Nick’s life work—his vengeance for years of shitty treatment and neglect. And just when he’d started to get his own back, this goddamn hero came swooping in out of nowhere to save the stupid day.
But he would learn.
Oh, yes. Rachel’s husband, whatever his name was, would have the attention turned toward him, and he would suffer. Knowing this, Nick felt a sense of relief, as if not all was lost. There was a new challenge for him now: a pleasant distraction from his troublesome youth. Already formulating a new plan, he turned and disappeared into the night, eager to make those inventive nightmares a reality.
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