Free Hell on Church Street by Jake Hinkson

magnified a thousand times. When I finally picked myself up and started to cross the room, I felt as if I were walking over a sheet of glass.
    From the kitchen the refrigerator hummed, but otherwise the house lay silent. Creeping past the kitchen, I inched down the carpeted hallway. I took each step as if the floor might break. I passed the bathroom door, which was closed. Beneath the door, no light. The office door was open, and I went in. Shut the door. Delicately. Turned on the flashlight. Across the room to the desk. Crouched behind it. Eased open the bottom drawer. Delicately. And there it was.
    It was a long manila envelope with DYESS written in magic marker. I slipped it into my coat and was raising myself up when I heard a toilet flush and the bathroom door open.
    Dropping down again, I knocked over a paperweight on Card’s desk and the goddamn thing hit the carpet with a thud. I fumbled with the flashlight but clicked it off.
    Then there was silence.
    Loud silence.
    Nothing.
    I didn’t breathe.
    Then there was the sound of movement, the sound of weight moving away from me and toward the kitchen.
    I eased up just a little and saw nothing, of course, but the door of the office. It was possible that the toilet flush had obscured the paperweight. Whoever it was in the bathroom might not have heard it. They might not have seen the light.
    My body was tense—but not in a useless way. I was coiled, ready. I wiped sweat from my face and felt more sweat drip from my armpits.
    I waited.
    Every second weighed a thousand pounds.
    I kept waiting.
    There was no sound coming from the kitchen. Nothing.
    Were they on the phone to the cops? Doubtful. You’d investigate a sound like the paperweight before you’d dial up the cops. Had they seen the light? Had they passed by and gone on to bed? It was possible I’d misheard and just thought they were going to the kitchen.
    The longer I waited the more likely that seemed.
    One thing was for sure: I couldn’t just wait. The longer I waited, the more chance I had of getting caught. The office did have a small window, but Card, more concerned with books and solitude than the view of his backyard, had obscured it with two heavy bookshelves. To make matters worse, the shelves had long ago sunk into the carpet. Even if I didn’t care about the noise, I couldn’t get those shelves out of the way to get out the window.
    Nothing was happening outside that door. No whispers. No patter of feet. No dialing of the phone. Nothing.
    I had to move.
    I eased up and crept, weightlessly it seemed like, to the door and listened. Listened hard. But there was nothing, goddamn it. I’m telling you, there was no sound. I decided to go for it. If one of the Cards were up and about, I’d just have to run for the window. There was no other option.
    I eased the door open, and it made the slightest sucking noise, like a vacuum being released, and I opened it wider. The hinges squeaked. I paused.
      Nothing.
    I stepped into the hall. The bedrooms were at the end, across from each other, and both doors were open slightly, but everything was dark and quiet.
    I crept down the hall toward the living room. Past the bathroom. The door was open, and a little nightlight shone alone in the dark.
    Inching along, I passed the darkened kitchen. Quietly. I was almost to the living room window when I realized there was someone in the kitchen watching me.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
    It was Sister Card.
    She stood there frozen. Wearing a long t-shirt and pink ankle-high socks. And holding that goddamn butcher knife. When I turned, she tried to scream but nothing came out. She looked so absurd trying to scream I could have laughed, but I didn’t.
    I rushed her. I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t thinking. I just did it. I leapt at her and punched her in the face. I’d never struck anyone before, and when the impact hurt my hand, it startled me. Sister Card toppled over. The poor woman never even raised the