chapter four

                                    

                                          
     THE GET-RICH-OR-LITERALLY-DIE-TRYING-PLAN, like most things in my life, falls short.  
                          
     Nat had patiently reassured me that, to her knowledge at least, Noel is not planning on suing me. Although I'm pretty sure she only said that because I was two seconds away from throwing myself in front of a flashy Mercedes Benz. And that would probably look bad in front of Mark's family. 
                          
     Which means to say, I've been left with all my limbs still attached, but also still dreadfully poor.
                          
     I haven't heard from the frowning man since. The grapevine- Mark- tells me Noel's busy and that's why I haven't seen him around. Extrapolating from the tone of voice Mark used, I'm not under the impression that Noel particularly cares about my totally sincere apology. 
                          
     But none of that means anything now. Judging by the terrifying noises coming from outside my door, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die. 
                          
     "Vika, it's one in the morning, I swear if this is about your book, I'm going to punch you in the face," Natalya groans through the receiver, sleep thick in her voice in a way that softens the threatening edge. 
                          
     I don't have time for unimaginative insults about my novel. This is a matter of life or death. 
                          
     "Is Mark with you right now?" I ask, eyes wide and trained on the door. "Yes or no, I need to know."
                          
     "Hmm? Yeah, why? Can I sleep now?" she mumbles, and from what I hear, buries her face into a pillow. 
                          
     Ignoring the chill that sparks down my spine, I slowly lift the covers off of my body, goosebumps rising over my skin. I gulp when my bare feet touch the wooden floorboards and the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. When I gingerly step closer towards the door, the voice from the television gets sharper
                          
     My pulse quickens.
                          
     "There's someone in the house," I whisper harshly into the phone. "Or something." 
                          
     "You're overreacting, I'm sure it's just the cat."
                          
     I narrow my eyes, warily grasping the doorknob. Flickers of masked murderers and vengeful spirits cross my mind. "I'm sorry, last time I checked, cats can't turn on televisions, so there is clearly an intruder who wants to murder me and they're inside the house." 
                          
     Nat yawns. "Cool, can I hang up now?" 
                          
     "No!" I gasp, horrified. "Does my death mean nothing to you?"
                          
     "At one in the morning, no, not really." 
                          
     My face drops. "All right, fine, just stay on the phone with me while I check it out. And make sure you're ready to call 911 if anything happens, okay? I'm serious. Promise."
                          
     I roll my eyes as she makes another noncommittal hum of confirmation, and my ears adjust back to the voices on the other side of the door. I'm not sure what kind of murderer would go through the trouble of turning on the television, but I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyze some homicidal maniac.
                          
     When I finally push the door open with bated breath, nothing immediately jumps out to murder me. With a hard swallow, I poke my head out into the darkness.
                          
     Shadows touch everything I can see, and from my angle, the living room is just out of view. Other than the distant voices from the television, there's quiet distilled in the air. When I take a cautious step forward, there's still nothing.
                          
     Suspiciously nothing.
                          
      With quick and light steps, I make a detour to the kitchen, hoping not to announce my presence to any would-be murderers. Unfortunately, when I pull open the drawer to arm myself, all that stares back at me are an abundance of blunt spoons. My eyes slide over to the dishwasher that, to my demise, is filled with all the sharp objects in the near vicinity.