The Waitress

23 - Death to the Dalton

Kaely was left alone in the dust as her mother sped away from her, and the first thing she did was go back inside. As she suspected, as soon as she passed through the doorway something clicked softly and it was sealed behind her. It wouldn't take much for her to escape; she could always break a window, but she understood Genevieve's desperation. It would be more to keep others out than to keep her in.

She went straight upstairs and back to the room she'd been kept in, the one that was dressed like a prison. She took a shower in the bathroom, discarding her clothes on the floor before padding out with a towel wrapped around her body. Hesitating, she opened the door next to the bathroom and peeked in, realising she hadn't bothered to check it earlier. She hadn't thought about clothes until now, when she realised she needed a desperate change. Her clothes were beginning to smell, and it wasn't doing her any good.

When she walked in, she found a small walk-in-robe big enough for her to step into but not big enough to change in. There were a few shelves lining the wall, with things like jumpers, pants, shorts, shirts and shoes resting on the wood. She picked out a grey shirt and a pair of trackies, along with some underwear and a pair of socks, and trudged back into the bedroom, pulling everything on. With a towel wrapped around her hair to keep it from dripping, she climbed into the bed and flopped backwards into it, her head landing on the pillow. She let out a heavy sigh and closed her eyes to the gentle sun outside the window, feeling her thoughts drift away from her in an instant.

She wasn't an hour later that she woke up, a loud thump jolting her into her senses. A loud, distracting thump that could have come from anyone, and could've been a completely usual occurrence.

If the house wasn't empty, of course. Which it was.

Kaely stiffened and her whole body tightened. She wiped her eyes and slipped silently out of bed. Instinctively, she reached inside the side table drawer on the left of her bed and closed her hands around the automatic pistol her mother had left there for her. She had been informed of its location, in case anything were to happen, and Kaely had been unwary of the weapon's existence at first. Now, she was overly ecstatic that Genevieve had trusted her with the gun.

With the loaded gun clasped tightly in both hands, Kaely nudged the door to the room open, grimacing as it creaked in its frame. She hesitated, wondering if she was being paranoid. But she heard it again, another thump. Closer, this time. It came from behind the ballroom doors; a loud creak of floorboards, it had to be. It definitely wasn't her mind playing tricks on her. A shadow passed beneath the door as she looked at it from over the railings, and she suddenly had the insane thought to run, hide and keep quiet until they left. But she had to know who it was; it if was Genevieve, back because she forgot something, or if it was Richard Campbell, here to kill her. She needed to know what she was up against.

She ducked low as she heard the doors being pushed open and jogged quickly to hide behind one of the pillars holding the roof up above her, suddenly really glad she'd decided to pull on a pair of socks. After a moment of silence, Kaely heard footsteps, realising immediately that it was a person. She was starting to think that a window had been left open somewhere and a stray wombat or something had snuck in, but she soon realised wombats couldn't open doors. Or click the safety off of guns. Or hold guns. Or climb a wall to enter a window. Or climb at all.

Then she frowned. Wombats can climb, you shallow 'animal-lover', she scolded herself as she remembered seeing one do so in the backyard of a house she'd rented once in Western Australia.

Why am I thinking about wombats again? She asked herself, confused at the point of hiding behind a pillar with a gun ready while she thought of wombats and Western Australia. How did wombats even enter this conversation with myself?