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Previous 08 They Still Have The Boy: A Samantha Leary Short Story
By J.E. Nickerson
Morning light settled softly across the quiet neighborhood. Leigh bent over her flowerbeds, the hose warm in her hands, water spilling gently into the soil. The scent of damp earth drifted up, mixed with the early morning fog still burning off as the sun rose. Garry was at work, seal-coating the roads. He had come home after she was asleep and had left before she woke. The house felt impossibly quiet, empty in a way she hadn’t noticed before. She thought of children — laughter she would never hear, rooms that would remain silent. Her hand grazed her stomach, still wondering if a trip to the doctor would explain the pain she felt in her side every day near her ovaries.
She straightened and wiped her hands on her apron. Two thoughts ran together: the routine of the morning, and a gnawing unease she couldn’t place. She tried to shake it.
A car hummed along the street, several yards away. Its paint was faded, the muffler missing, and the roar of the engine shattered the early-morning calm—birds scattered, children squealed as they chased each other on bicycles. The tires rattled unevenly over the pavement, drawing Leigh’s attention despite herself.
Leigh’s stomach tightened. It wasn’t the kind of car she usually saw in the neighborhood. Most of her neighbors were renters. But they drove cars that were more presentable. Her eyes tracked the car as it approached. Rust along the fenders, cracked headlights, the tires wobbling slightly. Something about the way it moved made her pause. She gripped the hose a little tighter.
“It’s just a car,” she whispered to herself almost feeling guilty for judging the appearance.
It passed the house, slow, deliberate. Rust streaked along the fenders, the muffler missing, rattling unevenly over the pavement. The engine’s roar cut through the quiet morning, scattering the laughter of children chasing each other on bicycles. Through the windshield, she could make out only a black figure behind the wheel. Leigh’s stomach tightened. Her mind flicked back to yesterday’s call about the equipment. Her husband had arranged it. He wouldn’t be home until five. Just her. Alone.
Her chest tightened. Every muscle coiled. Why are you so nervous it’s just an old car. She told herself. But the tension didn’t ease.
The car looped back around. Slower this time, lingering near the curb. Leigh felt the pull of fear — an instinct flickering from deep inside. The man’s eyes met hers through the windshield, sharp, wired, unsteady.
The man stepped out before she could move. “Rick Weinmann,” he said. Voice sharp, high. “Your husband said I could come by pick up the equipment. I know I’m early but…I was in the area.”
Leigh moved toward the front door, her hand trembled on the doorknob. The morning was quiet, the air soft, but her chest tightened, a coil of unease curling low in her stomach. The door was unlocked. Rick moved carefully towards her. She hesitated, and then stepped aside.
“Alright… come in,” she murmured, voice tight.
Before she could fully move, he shoved her. The force knocked the breath from her lungs. She stumbled into the doorway, pressed against the doorjamb. She saw Rick’s hand move behind his back.
The glint of a large, flat knife caught her eye as he pulled it free. The steel reflected cruelly in the light.
“Don’t scream,” he said, voice low, urgent.
Leigh’s pulse slammed. Her hands shook. Pain flared along her arm where his grip tightened. Every nerve screamed. Her stomach twisted.
Her mind flashed to the stories on the news of break-ins. The women who had been violated beyond the loss of possessions, but hadn’t been killed.
The thought burst through her mind before she could stop it.
“Please… don’t rape me,” she blurted, the words escaping in a breathless rush.
“Shut up,” Rick snapped.
Her eyes flicked across the room—the equipment on the table, the door behind him. Every escape, every threat cataloged in a fraction of a second. Every instinct screamed get out.
Rick shoved her into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
She could hear him outside it. Her stomach clenched, acid rising in her throat, palms slick with sweat. Every thump of equipment made her flinch.
Leigh’s gaze snapped to the back window. The screen was loose—another thing Garry had forgotten to fix.
Her pulse spiked. Her chest tightened until it hurt. Adrenaline roared through her veins, sharpening every sense. Pain and fear intertwined, biting into her muscles.
She didn’t wait.
Shoving the window up, she pushed at the screen. The wire scraped her palms until it finally gave way. The metal frame cut into her hands, tiny sparks of pain sharpening her awareness.
She twisted through the opening and tumbled onto the grass outside.
Her knees slammed into the ground. Wrists scraped. Ankles jolted with pain. But she didn’t stop.
She scrambled upright.
“Help! Somebody help!”
Her scream tore through the morning air, raw and desperate.
Marsha and Frieda looked up from the edge of their lawns, where they had been talking and watching their children play. Leigh saw their expressions change as they rushed toward her.
“Help! He’s stealing the equipment!” Leigh shouted, chest pounding, knees wobbling.
She watched Rick struggling with the equipment, yanking open the car door and throwing it into the back seat. He climbed in and started the engine. The rattling roar shattered the quiet street.
Leigh reached for Frieda as she arrived. Frieda caught her just as Leigh’s legs gave out, lowering her onto the grass.
Her arms shook uncontrollably. Every detail burned into her memory—the shove, the knife, the smell of fear on her own skin, the frantic movements of Rick’s hands.
Her heart hammered. Adrenaline surged through her veins. Her lungs burned with each desperate breath.
The engine rattled as Rick pulled away slowly, deliberately, leaving the neighborhood quiet once more.
But nothing felt safe anymore.
Leigh’s home had been violated. Her sense of security ripped away in moments. Her chest heaved, stomach churning, every heartbeat echoing the memory.
The world she had trusted suddenly felt fragile.
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