The Night of the Bat
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 3
Edgar stood slowly from beside her, then sat heavily against the kitchen cabinets instead, as though his legs no longer entirely trusted him, while the young woman remained curled on the floor clutching her broken leg with shaking hands, her face pale beneath the harsh overhead lights and damp strands of black hair stuck against her cheeks.
The kitchen smelled faintly of rainwater, blood, and the bourbon Edgar had spilled across his sleeve.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere deep in the hills.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
The silence between them had changed now. Earlier it had been violent and charged with fear; now it felt raw and unbearable, filled with the weight of what had already happened and the knowledge that neither of them could undo it.
Edgar kept staring at the twisted shape of her leg.
Every time he looked away, his eyes returned to it again.
“You need a hospital,” he said finally, though his voice sounded distant to his own ears.
The girl gave a small bitter laugh that ended quickly in pain.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Probably.”
Edgar rubbed both hands hard across his face.
“What were you doing here?”
The question came out harsher than he intended.
The girl shut her eyes.
At first he thought she would refuse to answer, but instead her shoulders began trembling slightly, and he realized she was trying not to cry again.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said quietly.
Edgar said nothing.
“I swear to God,” she continued, breathing unevenly between words, “I thought the house was empty most nights.”
“You broke into my home.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve been armed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You could’ve attacked me.”
At that she turned her head slowly toward him, and the expression on her face struck him harder than shouting would have.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Only exhaustion.
“I’m not that person,” she whispered.
Another silence settled over the kitchen.
Rain battered the windows harder now, and somewhere upstairs one of the old pipes groaned inside the walls.
Edgar looked at the ski mask lying discarded beside the counter.
Then back at her.
“You’re what, nineteen?” he asked.
“Twenty.”
“Jesus Christ.”
The girl swallowed painfully.
“My brother’s thirteen.”
Edgar frowned slightly.
For several seconds she said nothing more, staring instead at the ceiling while tears gathered silently at the corners of her eyes.
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