What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?
The Request and the Confrontation
What’s the most scared you’ve ever been? My friend Khloe begged me to watch her boutique while she went to court to get a restraining order against Wilson, the employee she’d fired last week after he attacked her.
I got to the shop at 9:00, and Kloe was already a nervous wreck. She showed me how to lock the door from inside and where the panic button was under the register.
She said Wilson didn’t know about the court hearing today. She told me to keep the door locked anyway and only let in customers who knocked. Her hands were shaking as she gave me the keys and said she’d be back by noon at the latest. I locked the door behind her and flipped the sign to “by appointment only,” like she’d told me.
The first hour was quiet. I reorganized displays and tried not to think about this Wilson guy who’d apparently thrown Khloe into a wall when she’d fired him for stealing. Around 10:30, a woman knocked wanting to browse, and I let her in, watching the street the whole time she shopped. She left without buying anything, and I locked up again immediately.
At 11:00, I started feeling better because Kloe would be back soon. Then I saw someone across the street watching the store. My blood went cold because it matched the photo Kloe had shown me of Wilson. I texted Kloe asking when she’d be done, but got no response. Probably couldn’t have her phone on in court.
Wilson flicked his cigarette away and started crossing the street, not hurrying. He was taking his time like he knew I was trapped. I double-checked the door lock and moved behind the counter where the panic button was. He walked right up to the glass door and knocked three times, polite like a customer.
When I didn’t move, he knocked again harder. Then he pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to see inside. We made eye contact and he smiled, pointing at the door handle.
Mouththing, “Open up.”
I shook my head and he knocked again so hard the glass shook. Then he held up something and my stomach dropped because it was Khloe’s wallet. He pointed at it, then at the door, still smiling. I pulled out my phone to call 911, but he shook his head.
He held up his other hand with Khloe’s car keys, jangling them.
He mouthed, “She’s hurt.”
He pointed down the street, then back at the door. I was frozen, not knowing if he’d actually done something to Kloe or if he’d stolen her stuff. But then he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo through the glass. I couldn’t breathe because it was Khloe’s car with the windshield smashed.
He backed up a few steps and I thought maybe he was leaving. But then he pulled a crowbar from inside his hoodie and swung it at the door. The glass cracked but didn’t shatter. He hit it again and the crack spread further. I pressed the panic button but had no idea how long security would take.
He kept hitting the glass, each blow making the cracks bigger. Chunks starting to fall inside. I called 911 but they told me units were at least 10 minutes out. Wilson heard me on the phone and started swinging harder, faster. The hole in the glass was getting bigger. He reached through trying to unlock the door from inside, but couldn’t quite reach the bolt.
I grabbed a display pole and swung at his arm, but he pulled it back and laughed. He went back to smashing with the crowbar, and now half the door was gone.
