There it was again. Someone at the door. Someone trying to get *through* the door.
She sat up, bare feet on the frozen floor, hand steady despite the surge of fear running through her. Maybe it was just a drunk, confused, on his way home. Maybe it was a burglar, looking for an easy mark. Maybe it was—
There was a ping as whoever-it-was tried to break their way in, without success. There was no time to waste anymore; this was real. She moved silently, sliding into position next to the door, holding the knife tight as she reached over, and—with the most delicate of motions—released the lock.
The door drifted open, just a little, and paused. She held her breath, arm tensing as she got ready to swing out, praying she’d hit something hard enough to eliminate the threat. At least long enough to escape. She heard a raspy breath outside, and then—
“Béatrice?” came a weak voice. “Béatrice, it’s me.”
She dropped the knife, opened the door fully to see Émile there, looking sheepish, half-masked by the weak shadows of a moonlit night. “I know it’s late,” he said, “but—”
“You can’t just come by anytime you’re lonely,” she said. “Especially not this late, when—”