Hunted

Becky looked at the clock for the twentieth time that night. It wasn’t even five minutes later than the last time. But she just couldn’t sleep, however hard she tried. 

She had attempted every technique she could think of. Supposedly relaxing music on her iPhone. It just droned on and on forever with sleep remaining as elusive as when it started. 

Then, box breaths that her meditation teacher had shown her: it was supposed to distract your nervous system as you counted to four, decreasing stress in your body. It had worked wonderfully in Melissa’s studio as she inhaled the sweet scent of sandalwood and almost passed out. But it was doing nothing for Becky tonight.

Fuck it, she had even closed her eyes and started counting sheep. Even she knew that was never going to work.

So she sighed, got out of bed and checked on the kids for the umpteenth time. Piper and Vivian were tucked up safe and sound and remained fast asleep.

At least that was something, she thought.

Becky had not wanted Jack to go to Bogota. Not for the usual reason that she was worried about the dangers her banker husband might face in a violent and unstable Latin American country. 

Or, because it was mid-December and there was the usual round of holiday parties and kids’ activities that she would have to manage solo.

No, this time, she was worried about what might happen at home in suburban Connecticut.

As she returned to her bedroom she heard a noise outside that sent a chill down her spine. It sounded like footsteps on the sidewalk and a truck door shutting. She looked at the clock again. 

Three fifteen am.

For an instant she froze at the bedroom door, feet planted in the hallway. She couldn’t look. But she had to look, she told herself. She tiptoed through the doorway and turned left toward the darkened ensuite bathroom. 

Becky took a deep breath and drew the curtains less than an inch. That was as much as she dared. She peered out and saw the large SUV on the other side of the road. Instant relief. It was Desmond’s car. The college kid who came home for the holidays to his parents lived in the large center hall colonial two houses down on the other side of Becky’s street.

Desmond came and went at all hours with his posse of loud friends. No doubt having frequented many of the less salubrious bars in the Darien area. How his racket had annoyed Becky and Jack over the years.

Tonight, she could have kissed the kid. Such was her relief it was just Desmond.

She went to lie back in bed and attempt once more the fruitless task of falling asleep.

How had it come to this?

Eight years ago, she had marched in Washington DC wearing a pink pussyhat with millions of other women. They would show that misogynistic, racist pig not to mess with the women of America.

Four years ago, they had finally gotten him out of the White House. She had been a local organizer, making sure that every house on the bloc had their signs for the other candidate. 

That was when she had first proudly displayed another more daring lawn sign. It proclaimed in massive script that the misogynist in the White House was “SCUM”. 

That election four years earlier had been a close-run thing. The candidate chosen to unseat the misogynist was a senile geriatric who could barely string a sentence together. But somehow, Becky – and millions like her across the country – had got him over the line.

She remembered that wonderful sunny Saturday in early November, a full four days after election day, when the final vote counts came through. CNN, MSNBC and even Fox News declared that the bumbling geriatric had prevailed against the hated one. 

Becky had wept for joy, then jumped into her Tesla to drive into town. But she had not gotten very far because the streets were clogged with cars and trucks honking their horns to celebrate.

The confused old man she had supported became the new leader of the free world and life kind of got back to normal. Everyone else on the block packed away their lawn signs having done their duty. 

But Becky could not bring herself to take down the “SCUM” sign. It was just true, she told herself.  The following January, the reckless actions of the misogynist, inciting a mob to attack the Capitol, rather than accepting his defeat, confirmed her belief.

She would show that bastard, she told herself. She would never, ever take that sign down.

So, it had remained proudly displayed in her front yard these last four years. Through kids parties, Easter egg hunts and Halloween trick-or-treating. Those good neighbors and friends who came to her home for these things just smiled politely, ignored it and generally acted as though it was normal to have a giant placard calling the former commander-in-chief “SCUM” dominating one’s front lawn.

Over the years, Becky told herself, events had vindicated her decision to keep the sign. The racist misogynist did not disappear as everyone had hoped he would. Somehow, despite the fact everyone hated him more than ever, he was planning to run for office again.

Never mind, Becky thought, the beautiful young Vice President who had taken over from the senile fool would easily win. For another election running, she organized the lawn signs for the block. 

With hindsight, she should have seen the warning signs flashing. Far fewer of her neighbors were prepared to openly display their support this time around. She even saw a couple of banners in town proclaiming devotion to the hated one.

How could people be so brazen!?

Nonetheless, everything was set for a victory for the forces of righteousness, Becky thought. Nobody would vote Beelzebub back into office, would they?

But they did. By a landslide. She and her friends were crushed. They were in pain, in a dark place out of which they could find no way out. Becky was in a daze for days, weeks. She awoke crying most days and didn’t know how to stop. She didn’t know how she got through those dark times, got the kids into and out of school, to ballet. 

Still, the sign remained in her yard.

She finally started feeling a little better in early December. The new resistance was organizing and Becky would play a key role yet again as an organizer. It was something to take her mind off of the emptiness she felt. A distraction from the darkness, from the sheer pain she felt at the thought of him sitting in the Oval Office with his list of enemies.

Jack’s infrastructure deal in Colombia was coming to fruition and she assured him she would be fine. Even if she wasn’t completely sure that she would. 

As it turned out, Jack had barely left for the airport when the first call came. It was a local Connecticut number she didn’t recognize. But she picked up, thinking it might be the kids’ dentist or doctor.

“Is that Becky?” the deep male voice said.

“Yes, who is this?”

“I hear you are still defaming the duly elected leader of this country,” the man said, ignoring her question.

“Excuse me?”

Becky felt her heart racing.

“You heard me,” the man said, his voice remaining calm and even.

“Who the hell are you?” Becky said, struggling to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

 “What you have done will not be forgotten. I would watch my step if I were you.”

And with that the man had hung up.

After the call, Becky’s mind churned with fear and anger. She couldn’t believe someone would take things this far, that her simple sign—a quiet protest—could provoke such hostility. She considered taking it down, telling herself it would keep her family safe, but the thought felt like a betrayal. She tried to convince herself that things would settle down, that whoever was behind the threats would lose interest. But a gnawing dread took root, a chill that seeped deeper each day.

The next couple of days passed without incident. Jack checked in each day from Bogota and Becky told him everything was fine. But she remained on edge. She noticed things she hadn’t before: a dark car idling on the corner, strangers lingering a little too long outside her yard, glancing her way. 

Then, the calls began again. The first one was silent, just a faint hiss of breathing before the line went dead. The second was a voice she’d heard before, calm and slow, but carrying a darkness that made her blood run cold.

“You’re persistent,” the man said. “We can be, too.”

Her breath caught. “What do you want from me?”

There was a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Respect.”

The call ended. The silence afterward was louder than anything he’d said, filling the house with a hollow, oppressive tension that she couldn’t escape.

Becky went to the police, but they were of little help. The calls were untraceable, they told her, and unless someone trespassed or left behind tangible evidence, there wasn’t much they could do. One officer suggested she remove the sign, “just until things cool down.” She almost laughed at the irony. Cool down? But there was nothing funny about the slow realization dawning on her: she was alone in this.

That night, Becky called Jack. She couldn’t keep it to herself any longer, couldn’t manage the fear on her own. She wanted to tell him everything, but her voice faltered as she tried to explain, her words spilling out in jumbled fragments of the threats and the calls.

Jack’s voice was calm, trying to reassure her, though she could hear his worry, his distance. “Becky, take the sign down. You have nothing to prove. Just keep the girls safe,” he urged her. “I’ll be home soon, okay?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but when she hung up, her stomach churned with guilt and frustration. Taking down the sign felt wrong, like giving in to the darkness that had crept into her life. She went to bed that night, determined to stand her ground, even as a low, gnawing dread crept in beside her.

The calls continued, punctuated by stretches of silence that only seemed to heighten the tension. Becky barely slept, the strain making every shadow seem darker, every sound sharper. A week passed. She thought she was growing numb to the fear.

Tonight, it was already three twenty-five am. It was quiet again. She looked back out the bathroom window. The street was empty. Desmond and his buddies must have finally called it a night.

She went back into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. When she was least expecting it, sleep somehow took hold of her. 

But not for long. She awoke with the sound that sent a fresh jolt of terror down her spine.

Footsteps. Outside her window.

She froze, her heart hammering, and crept to the bedroom window, careful not to be seen. Peering out, she saw a figure standing on her lawn, staring at the “SCUM” sign as if mesmerized. In the dim light, she could see he was older, his face worn and set in a grim line as he raised a hand and traced the letters with his fingers, almost reverently.

Becky’s heart pounded as she watched him reach down and grip the sign, ripping it from the ground with violent force. He snapped the stake in half, tossing the pieces aside as he turned, his eyes meeting hers through the darkness. He gave her a slow, twisted smile, then walked off, disappearing into the shadows.

She called the police, her hands trembling, her voice shaking as she told them what happened. By the time they arrived, the man was long gone, the pieces of the sign left as a silent warning. The officers searched the area but found no trace of him. They told her to stay vigilant, to lock her doors and keep her lights on. But as they left, Becky felt a dark certainty settle over her. This was more than just intimidation; it was a message.

The next night, she took her daughters and stayed at a hotel, unable to shake the image of the man’s face or the sound of her sign snapping. She tried to convince herself she’d overreacted, that it was just one incident, but she couldn’t escape the dread that clung to her, a feeling that her life was slowly slipping out of her control.

She called Jack from the hotel and told him everything. 

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “I’m getting on the next flight.”

But he wouldn’t be home for a day.

Becky decided to return home to wait for Jack there. The house felt cold, the walls closing in as she walked through each room, her steps echoing in the silence. She found herself in the garage, staring at the broken remnants of her sign, its letters faded but defiant. She knew the smart thing would be to let it go, to put it all behind her. But as she traced the broken pieces, her hands clenched, a bitter anger bubbling up inside her.

Without thinking, she rebuilt the sign. She didn’t care about the consequences anymore. She couldn’t let them win, couldn’t let her voice be silenced. She repainted the letters, brighter and bolder than before, adding her own message at the bottom: We will not be silenced.

She planted it back in the yard, a surge of grim satisfaction filling her as she stood back and looked at it. It felt like reclaiming a piece of herself, a small victory against the darkness that had taken over her life. But that feeling was short-lived.

Her phone rang again and, for some reason, she couldn’t help herself but pick up.

“You don’t listen,” he snarled. “We warned you. We warned you what would happen.”

Becky felt her throat tighten, fear clawing its way up her spine. “Leave me alone,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

There was a long silence. Then, just before he hung up, he said, “This is just the beginning.”