Free Caught in the Middle by Gayle Roper

through the lilac, searching for lurking murderers.
    He waved his hand toward the dark building. “Big help they’d be. They’re all asleep.”
    I looked at the blank, black windows and admitted what he couldn’t know: I’d be in trouble even if they were awake. A retiree who used a cane, an unmarried elementary school teacher who jumped whenever I spoke to her and a teenaged couple still struggling with zits and apparently deaf, to judge by the volume of their music—none would be much help at the best of times.
    “Go stay with someone,” he said.
    “Believe me, I would if I could. But I don’t know anyone in Amhearst well enough to call them at one in the morning.”
    “There’s got to be somebody.” He seemed to be scanning the roofline for snipers. “Someone from work. Someone from the bell choir. Maddie, maybe.”
    I shook my head, cursing my mother’s careful training in the area of not intruding into another’s life unbidden. “I couldn’t. I’d feel ridiculous.”
    “Well, you can’t stay here alone.”
    “Enough already,” I said, exasperated. “I have to stay alone. There’s no choice, and you’re not helping me feel good about it, you know. I’ll be fine.”
    We walked to my front door. He stood close as I fumbled in my bag for my retrieved keys.
    “I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
    “No!” I said more emphatically than I meant to and than his suggestion called for. “No. Not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.”
    I stepped inside and turned to say good-night. I bumped my nose on his chest as he followed me through the door.
    “At least let me look around to make sure everything’s all right in here.”
    I watched him with mingled resentment and gratitude as he went from room to room, checking windows, searching closets, even looking under the bed. He was having a wonderful time being in charge. He stopped beside the kitchen phone.
    “I’m calling Maddie,” he said, and dialed before I had time to protest. We were both disappointed when he hung up without getting an answer.
    “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “Think what it would do to your reputation,” I said lightly. “To say nothing of mine.”
    But that wasn’t the reason I was saying no. Somewhere in my heart of hearts, he scared me more than the ephemeral killer. Real flesh and blood, male flesh and blood, nonpolice, nonofficial male flesh and blood, was more threatening than any number of shots out of the darkness. In fact, I was appalled at how frightened I was of Curt. Jack’s wounds went deep.
    I watched through my locked storm door as Curt drove away. The smaller his taillights became, the more empty my stomach felt, the more rapidly my heart beat. As soon as the taillights disappeared, I slammed the inside door and locked it. The apartment that had been so cozy and safe not five minutes ago was now cold and threatening.
    But the apartment hasn’t changed! Not one iota! Get a grip on yourself, Merry!
    Would that it were that easy.
    Whiskers and I went to bed with all the lights in the apartment on. I knew it ought to be the other way around, that all the lights inside should be off and all the lights outside on. That way I could see any villains lurking, and they couldn’t see me.
    There were two problems with that little bit of logic. One, the extent of the light outside was that weak-kneed bulb by the lilac and the forty-watt bulb outside my door. All other outside lights were beyond my control, their switches resting within the dark and silent apartments of my neighbors.
    And secondly, I was not, for any reason, going to stay alone in a dark room. My imagination was too vivid.
    I sat in bed, listening to Whiskers snore and telling myself I wasn’t afraid. I opened my Bible and read and reread Matthew 28:20. “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”
    I’m not too worried about the end of the