Chapter 3

The next morning, the smell hit me before I even opened the door. A thick, gag-inducing stench of rot and decay.

I pulled the door open and my stomach clenched.

My entire front entrance was a monument to filth. Ripped-open garbage bags spewed coffee grounds and rotting food across my welcome mat. Piles of dog feces were smeared on the door itself. And laid carefully in the center of it all was a dead squirrel, its body stiff, its eyes glassy.

The sight, the smell, it was a switch. The clean, quiet condo dissolved. I was back in the dust, the heat, the smell of death a constant companion. My lungs seized. I couldn't get a breath. The walls of the hallway started closing in, the air thick and heavy. I slid down the wall, gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.

"Jocelyn! Oh my God!"

My parents. They must have been on their way over for their morning check-in. My dad rushed to my side, his hands on my shoulders, grounding me.

"Breathe, honey. Just breathe with me. In... and out. You're safe. You're here. You're not there."

My mom was already on the phone with the HOA manager, her voice shaking with fury. I could hear the tinny, indifferent response from the other end.

"He says... he says we provoked them," she said, her face ashen after she hung up. "He said we should just clean it up and not make any more trouble."

My dad's jaw was set in a hard line. He helped me to my feet and started gathering cleaning supplies. We worked in silence, the stench of bleach mixing with the smell of decay. As I scrubbed at a particularly stubborn smear on the door, I saw him.

Caleb Oliver.

He was hiding behind a large potted plant at the end of the hall, a smirk plastered on his face. He thought he was invisible. He was wrong.

I dropped the sponge and walked toward him. My steps were silent, measured. The panic was gone, replaced by something cold and clear.

He didn't notice me until I was standing right over him. His smirk faltered.

"Did you think this was funny?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

He tried to puff out his chest, to mimic his father's belligerence. "Don't know what you're talking about, crazy lady."

That's when I snapped.

I didn't hit him. I didn't have to. I grabbed the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fist, and leaned in close, my face inches from his.

"I have seen little boys like you die screaming for their mothers in places you can't even imagine," I whispered, letting every ounce of the battlefield ice seep into my voice. "You are not scary. You are a soft, stupid little bug. And if you ever, ever come near my door again, I will show you what real fear is. Do you understand me?"

His tough-guy act evaporated. His face went slack with terror, his eyes welling up with tears. He was just a child, a cruel one, but a child nonetheless. He let out a pathetic whimper.

"Jocelyn, no!" my mom cried, rushing forward and pulling me back.

My dad stepped between us, his body shielding the now-sobbing boy. "Go home, Caleb. Now."

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran, not even looking back.

My parents stared at me, their expressions a painful mix of understanding and horror. They had seen the monster I kept locked away. And they knew it was the Olivers who had just rattled its cage.