Stranger At My Door

5. Intruder

"What do you mean, a body?" I asked, my voice trembling as the words stumble out. 

Deep down, I already know what Amber means. I think I knew the moment I answered the phone and heard the shake in her voice. But I ask again, clinging to the last, fragile thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, this isn't real. "Amber, what do you mean, a body?"

There's silence on the other end of the line—just the faint sound of Amber sniffling. My stomach churns, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep the nausea at bay. I hear her rustling around—probably wiping her nose—before she speaks again.

"Jessica called Gregg about fifteen minutes ago... her dad's a police officer. Gregg rang me in tears. They think... they think it's Brad."

My mouth opens, but no words come. The world around me seems to blur, narrowing down to a single, relentless thought. Brad. The name spins in my head, echoing in a hollow, empty way, as though it doesn't belong to me anymore. None of this feels real.

"Sam?" Amber's voice wobbles on the line, pulling me back to the present.

I swallow hard, my throat burning. "How do they know it's him?" The words feel thick in my mouth, like I have to drag each one out. "Amber, how can they be sure it's Brad?"

Amber sniffles again, and I can almost picture her on the other end, holding back tears. "Jessica said... they're waiting for his parents to identify him. But they found a male... dressed in a bed sheet."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I sway, closing my eyes as the floor beneath me seems to tilt. A bed sheet. I press my hands to my stomach, trying to hold myself together as the world around me grows too quiet, too still.

"I have to go," I whisper, hanging up before Amber can say anything more.

The words "male in a bed sheet" loop in my mind like a cruel taunt. Brad. It has to be him. I know it is.

Suddenly, my stomach lurches violently, and I bolt for the bathroom. I barely make it before my body rebels, dry heaving over the toilet, though nothing comes up. I press my forehead against the cool porcelain, gasping for breath, my chest heaving like I'm about to split apart. Every muscle in my body is tense, coiled with fear and disbelief.

"Sam? Are you alright, darling?" My mum's voice floats through the door, her tone flat, distant. I didn't even hear her come up the stairs.

I don't answer. I just sit there, gasping for air, my pulse pounding so hard in my ears that I barely register her trying the door. Instinctively, I slam my foot against it, shoving it closed again.

"Sam, what's wrong?" she asks, but there's no urgency in her voice. It's hollow, almost mechanical. She's going through the motions, saying the right words, but not really feeling them. Sometimes I wonder if she's capable of feeling anything.

"Go away," I croak, barely holding back a sob. My throat tightens, my chest feeling like it's going to cave in. There's a pause on the other side of the door, and I know she's still there, lingering. But then I hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway. The door creaks as she leaves, but I stay on the floor, my breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

Any other mum would stay. She'd wait, maybe knock again, try to get me to talk. But not mine.

The heaving finally stops, and I collapse onto the cold bathroom tiles, letting the chill seep into my skin. I don't know how long I lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching as the pale blue paint peels away in patches. The house feels like it's crumbling around me, like everything is falling apart, and I'm helpless to stop it.