Page 9 of Holiday Hideaway
Finally, he succeeded in lifting the unreasonably heavy and unwieldy extension ladder onto the porch roof, gasping from exertion. Peloton, he realized, was a piece of cake in comparison to roofing.
Tilly’s dread mounted with every thudding step George took on the aluminum ladder. She’d watched his progress from the back and side attic windows as he’d hauled it to the front yard, but he was out of her range of vision now.
What if he actually managed to get onto the roof of the attic? What if he decided to investigateinsidethe attic? He could easily pick the lock. Worst-case scenario, he’d kick her out into the cold, tell her boss, and get her fired. She’d be unemployed and lose the new apartment—and her deposit money. She’d spend the rest of the winter sofa surfing. Evenworse, George might call the cops. As Ruth had pointed out, Denny would love an excuse to avenge the blow to his pride that she’d inflicted by leaving him.
She scurried around, gathering her meager belongings into the black plastic trash bag, as she plotted her escape. She would wait until George had reached the summit of Mount Crowe’s Nest; then she’d dash out the back door with Smoosh.
“Ruth,” she whispered into her phone. “I’ve got to make a break for it. Can you come pick me up? If he finds me here and I lose this job, I’ll lose my apartment, and then what?”
“Yeah, but I’m at least fifteen minutes away ...”
“I don’t care. Get over here. Now. Please? When he gets up to the roof, I’m gonna grab my stuff and make a run for it. I’ll wait for you down on Lakeshore. Hurry, please?”
She disconnected before Ruth could argue her out of her decision.
Even a cursory inspection revealed that the porch roof was in rough shape.
George trod gingerly, feeling spongy spots beneath his boots. No wonder the kitchen ceiling was falling in.
He leaned the ladder up against the shingle siding, adjusting it, testing it to make sure it was steady and would support his weight.
By the time he’d taken four steps up the ladder, he was regretting this foolhardy effort. The wind had picked up in the last few minutes, and George could swear the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees. He’d forgotten his gloves, and his hands were numb from the cold by the time he was halfway up the ladder, which was also the point when the wind, now a whistling, howling fury, whipped his beanie from his head and sent it sailing away.
And now the ladder was flapping against the house, and at the precise moment he decided to climb down and leave roofing to the pros, his foot slipped, and he felt himself falling. He heard an earsplitting shriek, which he realized was his own.
Tilly was about to flee the attic when she heard the scream and, seconds later, a sickening thud. She let go of Smoosh and ran to the window, where she peered down at Sticks Holloway, a.k.a. George, sprawled awkwardly on the porch roof below. He wasn’t moving.
“Oh my God.” She powered down the stairs, and the next thing she knew, she was crawling out of a second-floor-bedroom window, staring down at him. She knelt beside him, touched his neck. His face was pale, but he was breathing. His head was bleeding, and he seemed dazed.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“Nooooo,” he moaned. “Hurts.”
“What? What hurts?”
“Everything. But my ankle . . .”
She managed to push up the hem of his jeans and saw that his right ankle was already beginning to balloon.
“Okayy,” Tilly said. “Can you stand up?”
He opened his eyes and stared. “Who are you?”
Good question. She thought, fleetingly, of all the answers.
“Just an innocent bystander,” she said finally. “C’mon. Lean on me.”
Somehow, she managed to get him back through the bedroom window and down the stairs. She made him sit in a chair while she pressed a kitchen towel to the cut on his head to stanch the bleeding.
“Car keys,” she said, looking around the kitchen.
“Is this a carjacking?”
He was loopy. In shock, maybe, but she was relieved at being mistaken for a thief instead of being recognized as his former classmate. “This is me taking you to the hospital. Now, where are your car keys?”
“Uh ...” His face had gone even paler, and he began to sway.
She patted the pockets of his jacket, then his jeans, until finally, she found the keys in his front pocket.
