Then Felicia called and said the Resource Center had been cleared to reopen. Amanda shut off her torch, shook off her torpor, went to Bullseye and dropped a small fortune on sheet glass, hopeful that having supplies to get back to work with would get her out of her slump.
When Danny Hartmann arrived at her studio, she was unpacking and storing her precious cargo. They had an awkward conversation. Amanda tried to explain why she omitted — her word — her presence at Bullseye that night, saying she didn’t think she’d seen anything worth reporting.
From the number of times and the variety of ways the question was asked about why she lied — Hartmann’s word — Amanda knew Sam’s partner didn’t believe her. She tried to explain how frightened she was because of the similarities between what had happened last year and this latest horrible event, but she didn’t think Hartmann was convinced.
Amanda didn’t have the nerve to ask — or maybe didn’t want to find out — if Sam knew she’d been there.
After Hartmann left, Amanda considered going home and hiding herself under the quilt on her bed. Instead, she buried herself in work, her lethargy gone with the need to clear her mind of what happened. She finished storing her purchases, cleaned out kilns, scraped shelves and painted them with kiln-wash so she could fire glass on them, and readied the bins of ruined work for trash pickup. It was long after dark when she finished her tasks, but for the first time in days she felt like she’d gotten real work done.
As soon as she had the last trashcan out on the sidewalk, she locked up the back door, shut off the lights in her work area, and walked toward the front of the studio. The only illumination came from the three glory holes. Normally she found the glow of the molten glass comforting. But tonight, something was off.
Mid-studio, she stopped and looked around, trying to figure it out. Everything looked normal. Nothing was out of place.
Wait. That sound. Was it wind against the metal building? No. There wasn’t any wind. A neighbor putting out trash? The sound hadn’t come from the direction of the street.
When it happened again, she recognized what it was — the metal door near her worktables being carefully rattled, as if someone were trying to see if it was open.
“Who’s there?” she called.
There was no answer.
She tried again. “Who’s at the back door?”
Still nothing.
Her cell phone rang. She jumped, then rummaged to find it at the bottom of her purse. It was Sam.
“Where are you?” he said. “I’ve been trying to find you.”
“I’m just leaving the studio.”
“You didn’t answer when I knocked.”
“Is that you at the back door? Why didn’t you say so? You scared me when you didn’t answer.”
“It was a half hour ago, and I knocked at the front.”
She heard the sound again. “Somebody’s rattling the door. I better go.”
“Someone’s banging on your back door? Can you see who it is?”
“There aren’t any windows in the back.”
“And whoever it is didn’t respond when you asked?”