Someone Is Watching Read Free

for been waiting for me? Did he spot me hiding in the bushes and simply bide his time?
    This is good news, I assure myself. If it’s Roland Peterson, he’ll want only to scare me, not kill me. Killing me would invite more trouble, and he’s in enough trouble as it is. He might rough me up a bit, throw the fear of God into me, but then he’ll disappear. The sooner I stop struggling, the sooner he’ll leave me alone.
    Except he isn’t leaving me alone. He’s spinning me around and tearing at my clothes, his fingers ripping open the buttons of my black shirt and pushing my bra up over my breasts. “No!” I shout when I realize what is happening. Another fist crashes into my jaw, filling my mouth with blood. “Stop. Please. Don’t do this.” But my pleas are muffled and, if the man hears them at all, they do nothing to halt, or even slow down, the ferocity of his attack. An instant later he is tugging my jeans and panties down my hips. I kick furiously at the air, and I think my boot connects with his chest, but I’m not sure. It’s possible I only wish it had.
    What is happening? Where is everyone? I already know the answer. There is no one. The people who live in this neighborhood are, for the most part, on the plus side of sixty. No one goes out after ten o’clock, let alone this close to midnight. Even the most dedicated of dog walkers put little Fifi to bed hours ago.
    I feel the full weight of the man’s arm across my neck and shoulders, pinning me like a butterfly on a wall, as his other hand fumbles with his pants. There is the sickening sound of a zipper opening, then more fumbling, something being unwrapped. He’s putting on a condom, I realize, contemplating taking advantage ofthis distraction when a sudden punch to my stomach leaves me barely able to breathe, let alone attempt an escape. The man quickly pries my legs apart and pushes his way inside me. I feel the sudden cold of the lubricated condom as he tears into me, his hands reaching around me to grab my buttocks. I will my body to go numb, but I can still feel every vicious thrust. After what seems an eternity, it’s over. He bites down on my right breast as he climaxes, and I cry out. Seconds later, his lips approach my ear, his breath penetrating the fibers of the thin pillowcase. He smells of mouthwash, minty and crisp. “Tell me you love me,” he growls. His gloved hand clutches my throat. “Tell me you love me.”
    I open my mouth, hear the word “bastard” tumble from my lips. That’s when his hand tightens its grip. My nostrils flare against the stiff cotton of the pillowcase, and I gasp in horror, gulping at the air, swallowing blood.
I’m going to die here,
I think, not sure how long I can remain conscious. I picture my mother and father, and for the first time am glad they aren’t alive to have to deal with this. The man’s thumb presses down hard on my windpipe. Tiny blood vessels explode like fireworks behind my eyes. And then, finally, mercifully, the outside darkness slips beneath my eyelids and I see nothing at all.
    —
    When I come to, the man is gone.
    The pillowcase around my head has vanished, and the night air is licking my face, like a cat. I lie still for some time, unable to move, trying to gather the thoughts that are scattered among the broken hibiscus flowers framing my face, the taste of blood fresh in my mouth, a painful throbbing between my legs, my breasts bruised and sore. I’m naked from the waist down, and even with my eyes nearly swollen shut, I can make out the rivulets of blood that crisscross my thighs. Slowly, I pull my bra back into position, gather my blouse, and reach through the broken shrubbery for my jeans. My panties are missing, as is my canvas bag, and along with it, my gun and the license to carry it, my wallet, my cell phone, mycamera, my ID (both personal and professional), and the keys to both my car and my condo, although I do manage to locate my binoculars.
    “Help me,” I hear