“Maybe Beatrice sent your things to you already. I think she said something about that.” She glanced down at her watch. The girls. They were supposed to be here soon. She had to get away.
He pulled her back toward the chair. Her stomach knotted, pressing against her lungs, making it hard for her to catch her breath. Her legs felt wobbly, as though her bones were turning to overcooked strands of spaghetti.He pushed her into the chair.
He pulled a pencil with Cecelia’s name on it out of the center drawer. Her daughter had won the pencil at the street fair, her first outing after her leg cast came off. Amanda bit her lip as she looked back at Carlton. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded faster when she saw him stroke the pencil with the knife blade, back and forth, back and forth, like a deadly metronome counting away the seconds before the girls arrived.
Carlton’s gray eyes darted about the room. He brought the knife up to her throat again and gave her a skeletal smile. Her heart banged against her ribs as she slid back in the chair. He glared at her and then the expression on his greasy face softened as he brought the knife closer to her face. Except his eyes. They never softened. Cold and hard and darker than before. His eyes tracked her small movements like an animal intent on terrorizing its prey.
“Carlton, it’s getting really muggy in here. Why don’t we open the door—so we can get more air?”
“It is kind of warm.” He nodded, his voice suddenly normal. “I can do that.” He backed away from her and opened the door.
But her chair was still too far away from freedom—behind the desk. If only she had left the room the way it was before.She rose suddenly. “I’m feeling faint, Carlton. I need to use the washroom.” She moved around the desk, intent on leaving, but as soon as she thought she had a clear shot to run through the open door, he stood and blocked her way.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, his voice grating. “You’re staying with me. Right here. Until I’m done. Until I’ve found my things.”Those dead eyes focused on her face again. “Where’s your kid? Isn’t she coming here today, like she usually does? How is she? I want to see her. She likes me.” His eyes seemed to glitter when he mentioned Cecelia.
She looked up at him, willing herself not to show her terror. Don’t come here, Cece. Not until he’s gone.
Carlton looked down at Cecelia’s pencil again, still lying on the desk, and began to fondle it. Abruptly he pulled his fingers away as if aware that she was watching him.
Amanda cleared her throat, tried to imagine herself in front of a class, calm, in control, strong, even though her stomach had turned to jelly and all she could think of was getting out of her office, away from him. She had to call the police. “I think it’s time you left, Carlton.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sure Beatrice removed your things, after you didn’t come back. You might want to call her.” She reached for Cece’s pencil, her hands trembling, hoping her voice sounded firm, just as when she was in front of the class. “Let me give you her phone number.”
But Carlton grabbed her arm and angled the blade toward her throat.
“You’re not going anywhere, Amanda.” His voice rose in pitch. “I want you here until I say you can leave.”
She tried to lean away from the knife he was waving in front of her. Her heart lodged in her throat. She was running out of time before Cecelia and Sam arrived. Why did his eyes look so strange—his pupils so large, the whites of his eyes standing out in his unshaven face?She tried again, her voice sounding hoarse to her own ears, desperate. “Carlton. Why don’t you let me leave? You can look through everything on your own. Take as much time as you need. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
He shook his head, his cheek jumping faster now, sweat standing out in beads on his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, on his upper lip. “You’re not like the other mothers, especially that last one. She was afraid of me. You never were scared, were you? No, I can’t have you talking about me. That’s why I came back, to find out what you’ve been saying about me.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t said anything about you. And hardly anyone knows what happened … to Cece. We … don’t talk about it.”
“About what? What happened? I don’t believe you. Women always talk,” he panted heavily, “about their kids. You told people, didn’t you? I know you did!” He waved the knife at her again. Sweat now ringed his shirt under his arms, down the center of his chest.