“HELP! SOMEONE’S IN HERE WITH ME!”

Below, in the drive, they move. Squad car doors open and close rapidly. Fast footsteps up the sidewalk. Mom and Dad, too, barreling up the stairs.

“SOMEONE’S IN MY ROOM!”

The eyes under the bed don’t leave Kit’s own.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the man says.

“MOM! DAD! HELP!”

And he is sliding out from under now. And Kit sees his bald head, his dirty jacket and pants. His bare hands using the bed frame for leverage.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

The bedroom door crashes open. The sound scares Kit into another scream. Mom and Dad rush in, the police behind them.

One of the officers draws her gun. Trains it on the man, still on the floor, not quite standing yet, not quite in reach of Kit.

“Don’t move,” the officer says. And the man does not move. But he doesn’t look at the officer, either.

His eyes remained fixed on Kit’s. His lips almost a smile.

He raises his arms above his head.

“Take me in,” he says.

“Do not move,” the officer repeats, even as the second officer steps even closer, handcuffs drawn.

“Don’t shoot,” the man says. “I have no weapon. Only my hands.”

Yes. Bare-handed.

Mom and Dad are in the doorjamb, looking to Kit as though across a chasm.

This is him, their eyes betray. This is the killer in our daughter’s bedroom!

The cops cuff him and drag him from the bedroom before Kit can move. The journal lies open on the floor. She feels violated. She has been. Every object of her room no longer safe, nostalgic, no longer her own.

It feels like he will always be here. In this room. In the glass.

Mom and Dad are suddenly beside her. She didn’t even see them move. They’re asking her questions. Checking her for wounds. Outside in the street, the officers drag the man to the car. He complains. He laughs. He says the words “bare hands.”

Lights go on in neighboring homes. People step outside to witness.

“What…” Kit says. “Who…”

The man is yelling now. He says:

“Daphne’s on her way!”

He spits on a cop. The officers jam him into the back of the squad car and slam the door closed.

Kit at the window. Shaking. Can’t speak right. Can’t believe what she’s seeing, hearing, thinking.

“Did he…” she says.

“They got him baby,” Mom says. “They got him.”

“Did he say her name?”

She looks over her shoulder, to her journal, as if the pages that bring her so much solace might turn on their own, might answer her, might calm the unbearable anxiety upon her.

Engines rev below.

Dad hugs her as Mom goes to the window.

“They got him,” Mom says again. Then, “Jason? How did this happen?”

“Calm down, Kit,” Dad says. “You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay.”

But why did he tell her to calm down? Does she look crazy? Is her entire body visibly shaking?