Seven Stones High

A door slammed. Paula peeked through the blinds. “It’s them,” she said, observing the headlights of the car in the driveway. “What are they doing home already?” She opened the office door and looked out. “Here comes dad. Hide.” “Where?” She didn’t answer. Instead she scooted out the door, flipped the light switch off, and pulled the door closed behind her. In seconds, I could hear voices in the hall. Mr. Westclock. He will kill me if he finds me here, I thought. Where could I hide? There was no place a person could hide inside that tiny, dark office. Then I remembered seeing a small closet door when we first came into the office. I felt for the knob praying it wouldn’t be locked. Thank God it wasn’t. I slipped inside; my back pressed hard against rows of shelves and some sharp, bulky objects, and held my breath. The door would only barely close because of my chest, just enough to latch. Mr. Westclock’s voice grew louder. “I thought I saw this light on.” “Yes, it was,” came the quick thinking Paula. “I saw you had left it on and I just came in and turned it off.” Silence. Then sounds. Knocking. Drawers sliding and slamming. “Where did I put those tickets?” he grumbled. I slowly released my breath, afraid that my stomach would force the closet door open. I prayed again. More banging and knocking around, and his irritated voice. “I thought I put them right here in this drawer. Maybe I put them in the safe.” I held my breath again. “No. I didn’t open the safe. Maybe they’re in the closet.” The closet! This time I believe I stopped breathing altogether and my heart ceased beating. I waited to be discovered – to die.