Citizen

Chapter twenty-three

Nathan paced down the winding country road, thoughts racing, hands shaking. Trees obscured both sides of the lane, their entwined trunks casting shadows over the rough gravel.

Kyra twirled a stylus between her fingertips with a frown, scanning the words she'd written; they didn't sound like hers, though. They didn't have her flare, her detail, her voice.  Sighing, she cleared the Tab with a flourish. "Come on, Kyra. A five-year-old could have written this better."

Her hand hovered over the screen, itching to get all of the emotions trapped inside into words. But she couldn't.

Writing was Kyra's escape from reality when someone else's words wouldn't do the trick. Her mind, constantly over thinking and analysing, was put to better use – being creative. And she loved it. She didn't have to keep her anger, anxiety, or fear locked up. Words were hers to explore. But for once they wouldn't come. And how could they? How could she write about something she didn't understand yet? Kyra leaned back in her seat, hoping she would find the words she needed written on the ceiling.

A thud from above knocked her off her stoll. She froze, heart attempting to jump from her chest, listening to the once silent house. It was quiet. Almost deafeningly so. All except for the faint swoosh of a window and the ruffle of papers being shoved aside.

Kyra slid her Tab onto the kitchen bench and inched behind it, deftly selecting the largest knife from the block. Covering her mouth with one hand, she tiptoed to the staircase and turned right at the landing. Pale light spilled through Daniel's window, illuminating the hallway but throwing the stair landing into shadow. She edged along the wall, began to climb the next stairs. Every light tap of her foot resulted in a wince. 

A dark backpack was leaning against the stair railing; the inside was empty except for a Tab and a crinkled yellow file. There was a name across the top, but she couldn't quite decipher the handwriting. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, heart racing every inch she gained towards the bag.

"Crap."

Kyra whirled around. The voice had come from somewhere close, so close she could hear the speakers ragged breaths, so close she could feel their presence. The staircase was empty, as was the hallway leading from the study nook to her parents' bedroom. Light, warped and drained of colour by the curtains, filtered in through the windows and cast deep shadows around the house.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she peered around the corner; in the reading nook was a long L desk that wore a layer of dust like an animal with a winter coat - a winter that had lasted eight years. The dust was scattered now, shifting as a dark figure ruffled through the drawers, placing what they found into neat piles.

Kyra moved so that she faced their back, her body pressed against the cool glass, her shadow ending just before the figure's feet. The person picked up a piece of paper, scanning it carefully with a gloved finger. There was something familiar about their body, the thin yet muscled figure hugged by their thick black clothing.

"Drop the papers."

The figure stiffened and raised his arms above his head as the papers floated down like feathers. "I didn't take anything I swear."

"Turn around, slowly."

So slow it was almost painful, they spun around. The man pushed back his hood, revealing a shock of short yet untidy dark hair. Shadows followed the curve of the man's lips and jaw as he took a shaky breath. Deep brown eyes connected with her wide ones as the knife dropped to her side.