Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton

me, and how she knew better than to register the damn thing with the state. After that fit, I felt weird being around her, mostly because after she apologized, she went way overboard in making it up to me.
    Which is insane. After all, I did wreck her new jet ski and attracted the “cops” to her house. All of the things she said were true. But she’s having none of it. “You’re Galen’s sweetheart. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” She makes me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She asks how my day went. She asks me what I want from the store. She does my laundry. She offers to give me pedicures. It’s too much. At least with Rayna here, she could divide her efforts between the two of us. Now I’m it.
    A bolt of lightning strikes close somewhere on the beach. The weather channel has been calling for severe thunderstorms tonight. Looks like I made it right on time to excuse myself from going back to Galen’s for the evening. I call Rachel to let her know.
    “You want me to come over? I don’t mind driving in it.”
    “No, no,” I say a little too quickly. “That’s okay. I’ll be fine. You have a night to yourself.”
    “Don’t be silly. I’ve had plenty of nights to myself.”
    “Right. But, uh, my house isn’t as nice as Galen’s house. You probably won’t be comfortable here.”
    “Psh. You know I can sleep anywhere.”
    At this point I don’t know if Rachel is purposely dodging my hints, or if she genuinely doesn’t get it. “Actually, I’d like to be alone tonight. If that’s okay.”
    Silence. Then, “Why? Anything I should know about?”
    “Yeah. There’s no place like home.”
    More silence. The kind of silence that suggests offense. If she is offended though, she keeps it to herself. “Well. Good night then.”
    “Good night, Rachel.”
    * * *
    The power goes out about an hour later. The storm unfurling outside, minus the comforting hum of electricity in the house, plus the scary movie I’d been watching, equals my nerves rioting. We have a generator, but it’s in the garage and I wasn’t smart enough to keep a flashlight with me on the couch. Even if I was, I don’t actually know how to start the generator.
    I stand and wrap the blanket around my shoulders, not because I’m cold but because, stupidly, I feel better protected against the unknown with an extra layer. Each time the lightning illuminates the room—which, thankfully, is often—I memorize the next few steps ahead of me before the dark takes over again. Making my way to the kitchen, I wait for the next lightning to flash so I can open the cabinet where Mom stores her heavy-duty flashlight. As I reach for it, the silhouette of a man’s shadow flashes like a black stain against the white cabinets.
    I turn around and clutch the flashlight to my chest. What do I do? If I turn the flashlight on, the intruder will know exactly where I am. He’ll be able to follow the light right to me. But if I keep it off, I might miss my opportunity to see him .
    I duck down and peer around the counter. Whoever was standing in the living room isn’t there anymore. Goose bumps spring up everywhere—he probably already saw me in the kitchen and is on his way to get me. I wait for a bolt of lightning, then another before I have the courage to crawl across the linoleum and into the hallway.
    Which I immediately realize is a stupid move. If he were to appear in front or behind me, there’s nowhere to go. I back up, hoping I don’t bump into anything. Lightning illuminates the short distance back to the kitchen. My only chance is to make it to the garage. I have to be quick, because the door makes a god-awful noise and sometimes it sticks without shutting all the way. As soon as I open it, he’ll know where to find me. But it’s the only chance I get.
    My hand closes around the knob.
    His hand closes around my arm.
    I turn around screaming, and slam the flashlight into his face, his neck, his shoulder, I’m not sure which. Suddenly my weapon is ripped from my hands. I hear it land a few feet away on the kitchen floor.
    A flash of lightning shows that he is very big. Muscular. And he’s not wearing a shirt.
    “Were you really crawling around on the floor?” Toraf says.
    “Ugh!” I shove him back. “Is that your favorite thing to do? Scare me?”
    He snickers. His outline moves toward the living room. “If you’re so scared you should lock the doors.”
    I open my mouth and shut it a couple of times. I had forgotten to