Free Hotter than Helen (The "Bobby's Diner" Series) by Susan Wingate

unlock it.
    Upon entering the garage, the darkness subsumed all shape and form. She lost track of the cat. She could barely see her own hands. But she couldn’t think about the stupid cat, not now. She had to worry about saving her own skin.
    Inside the pitch-black emptiness, she groped around until her eyes adjusted as the men banged against the bathroom door, yelling to her about breaking it down. After feeling around for the cabinet, the one she stored her old papers in, she opened it and slipped her note inside, then closed it.
    Unable to see for certain, something matted, unfamiliar brushed across her hand gently. She recoiled and gasped. Nothing happened, only her nerves sending a splitting chill through her spine.
    She slipped the loop of the combination lock through the cabinet’s latch. Everything else felt like dark water. She had no baseline of where she was because of utter murkiness. The only thing remotely close to this sensation was her memory as a teenager in a haunted house with fake spider webs grazing against her skin via a short kiddy-train ride.
    She crouched down, trying to squeeze in behind the. She tried not to breathe, tried not to think.
    Helen realized something was missing. The world had gone deaf—was void of sound.
    Maybe they left. Maybe they gave up.
    She took in a helpless gulp of air and held it.
    Straining to listen, to hear anything now, her eyes felt so open, like her pupils had dilated to the size of pennies.
    Nothingness.
    She crouched down onto all fours in the slice between the wall and the cabinet, trying to get more comfortable. She heard the cat mewl once and knew he was close but didn’t know where. She reached her hands out, patting at the cool concrete floor, searching for him.
    A streak of light blazed on. Someone had flipped on the lightswitch. It angled through the dark garage, spotlighting the opposite side of the room, by the entry for cars, by the tambour door.
    Helen blinked. Her pupils shrunk immediately.
    The glaring light cascaded around the two men’s bodies.
    Helen huddled alone, motionless. Her arms covered her head. The gritty floor pressed hard against her forehead.
    “Did you think you could hide?”
    Lifting her head, she saw two sets of men’s shoes. She began to cry.
    “Did you think you could hide?” He repeated with more intensity, commanding her to speak.
    “Don’t do this.”
    “Don’t do what, honey?” He stepped closer. Tanner followed him. “Don’t do what?”
    “Look. I’ll just go back to Seattle. I’ll disappear. I’ll never say a word.” Her voice warbled out the words, begging.
    “No. Now, you know that won’t work for any of us.” He shifted his eyes onto Tanner. “Get her. We need to take her somewhere else.”
    As Tanner approached her, Helen screamed. “Shut up, bitch.” He cracked her across the cheek with a fist. Helen fell to the side and onto the floor at the base of the cabinet. She scrambled on her side away from him but it proved useless. He was on her fast. Pulling her up to her feet with both hands—one hand gripping the back of her shirt and the other snagged within her hair. He steadied her and then punched her in the face again.
    “Okay. That’s enough. We don’t want any blood in here.” Hawthorne walked over to both of them, grabbing one of Helen’s arms and leading her in front of him. “Take her car. I’ll take Helen.”
     
    18
    The deadbolt didn’t click over when she turned the key inside the side door lock. She didn’t remember locking it but she also didn’t remember not locking it either. Habits like that she just took for granted sometimes. Although today, Georgette parked her car, her little white Suzuki Grand Vitarra, in the driveway instead of inside the garage. It needed a wash, plus this spring day looked too inviting to drive inside and walk through the garage, inside through the bathroom and into the house. She wanted to stay outside as long as possible today.
    “Gangster!