The kitchen hadn’t seemed so far away when I was a kid. I made my way down through the darkened house, not switching on any lights. Even if I could remember where the switches were, I didn’t want to turn myself into a target on the off-chance there was an intruder.The vast kitchen with its high-beamed ceiling was eerily full of looming shadows, and the yellow lamplight spilling from the single overhead lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom. I filled the electric kettle, then rinsed out the teapot to brew a fresh pot. But tea wasn’t going to be enough to silence my grumbling stomach. Had the considerate person who’d left milk and made up my bed also left food? There was nothing in the kitchen itself, but John always loved biscuits with his tea. That would be better than nothing. So I headed into the pantry, and was still groping for the light switch when I heard a sound that turned my veins to ice. I froze. The outer kitchen door creaked open.
The wind blowing open an unlatched door? Ghosts?
But it was worse than ghosts. The high-pitched creak turned into an ominously final bang as the door shut again, and then there were heavy, booted footsteps across the kitchen floor.
My heart leapt into my throat. It was beating so hard, I was sure I was at serious risk of a coronary. Forget the stress of a corporate job. This was a million times worse.
With my heart thudding loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.
The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away. The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.
‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.
He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.
In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.
‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.
And he knew my name. Oh heavens.
Probably not a burglar after all.
If you'd like to read more of Last of the Summer Vines, you can download it from Amazon, iBooks, Nook, Kobo and Google Play.
