sooner.
“Come up the back stairs,” Meredith had shouted over the phone. “He’s in the kitchen. I think he knows, Ellie. He’s going to kill me. Hurry! You have to get me out of here.”
“I’ll be there and I’ll call 911.”
“No!” Meredith was adamant. “No cops. They won’t help me. They won’t—they’ll side with him. Just hurry!”
“Why didn’t I get there in time, Lord?” Eloise whispered in a prayer for forgiveness. She shivered in spite of the summer morning and Duff’s efforts to console her. She’d tried to help her friend and she’d failed.
Meredith called her, crying and frantic, in the middle of the night. Eloise rushed into the dark night, her own fears somehow pushed aside in order to get Meredith away from her abusive husband. But she’d arrived too late.
“Why didn’t I get there sooner? Why didn’t I call 911 to help you?” She reached for Duff, rubbing her hand over his soft brown fur. “Why didn’t I take you with me, boy?”
But Eloise knew the answer to all of those questions. The roses. She’d been so afraid to leave her house after she’d received the roses. She didn’t even take her car. She’d walked the few blocks to Meredith’s house. And now, she had to stay hidden, had to stay out of the limelight. She couldn’t risk the glare of cameras and reporters and questions from the local authorities. Because she couldn’t trust anyone to help her, either. Not even the police.
If she’d been able to step forward sooner, to alert the authorities that Meredith’s husband was dangerous, their plan might have worked. Meredith would have gone to a safe place. But Meredith didn’t want to go to the local authorities, Eloise reminded herself now. Meredith knew, just as Eloise did, that sometimes the police were actually part of the problem. So they agreed to keep quiet and Eloise finally talked Meredith into escaping. They formed a solid plan, talked about it quietly and secretly for weeks. Everything was in place. And Meredith was finally ready to leave.
But apparently, Meredith’s husband had figured things out.
And for that reason, her friend was now dead.
And she was paralyzed with a fear she’d been running from for over twenty years. Paralyzed because Meredith’s husband had still been there at Meredith’s house last night when she arrived. He stood over the still body, crying quietly as he stared down at his dead wife. A killer crying in regret over the woman he’d murdered.
And that killer might have seen Eloise.
It was just a glimpse in the dark, she reminded herself. He couldn’t have caught a good look at her. And since she’d disguised herself with a big hat and a scarf, she prayed he couldn’t identify her. But he’d heard her intake of breath, heard the shocked gasp as she stood on the landing above, her silhouette hidden in the shadows.
But he hadn’t come after her. Yet.
No one had come after her. Yet.
But the roses…the roses meant that Randall Parker might not be the only person who wanted her dead and gone.
Had the Mob found her after all these years?
“I have to get to work,” she said, forcing herself out of the chair, her knuckles white from clutching her now-cold coffee. “I have to pretend everything is all right.”
Putting her cup in the sink, Eloise glanced at the clock. She was late and she was never late. Verdie had already called once, concerned. Verdie would send Frank to look for her.
Meredith won’t be there this morning, either.
Meredith would never be at work again.
Her limbs stiff and fatigued from tension and lack of sleep, Eloise managed to get dressed and pull herself together, doing her usual routine of downplaying her looks by pulling her hair away from her face and putting on brown contacts and dowdy clothes. No makeup, but then she rarely wore any—except for a bit of concealer over her scar. She tried to make herself plain and unremarkable and she prayed that ploy would work today. She had to act normal, as if nothing had happened. She had to go through the motions. She knew how to go through the motions; she’d been doing that for so long now it was like second nature.
She’d made it to the hallway, Duff right by her side, when a knock at the front door caused her to drop her purse. It thumped against the tile floor, making her flinch with fear and causing Duff to go wild, barking angrily as he sensed her tension and fear. Picking the purse up again, Eloise slipped her hand into the hidden side compartment where she kept her pistol.
“Duff, sit,” she said, trying to sound firm. The big dog whimpered, barked once more, then did as she commanded. But his snarl and his quivering body indicated he would attack if she gave him the word.
Shaking, Eloise adjusted the small gun in her hand, its familiar steel giving her a sense of reassurance. But her mind whirled between running out the back door and remembering the gun-training courses she’d taken.
Lord, help me, she prayed. I’m so very tired of running. I’m so very tired of being afraid.
Eloise took a deep breath, gave Duff another command to stay, then walked toward the front door. “Who is it?” she called, her voice weak underneath the heavy, throbbing pulse pumping through her ears.
No reply. She swallowed, once, twice, pulling the gun out of her bag. Then she forced herself to look through the peephole. A man she didn’t recognize stood at her door. “I said who’s there?” But something about this man—
“It’s me,” came the terse answer. “It’s me…Jackson McGraw. Eloise, open the door and let me in, please.”
Jackson stood back, gun at the ready, as the door creaked open about an inch. He turned, doing a quick scan of the surrounding area. Roark jogged by, looking laid-back and casual in spite of the intensity of the situation. Satisfied that his team was still in place, Jackson slowly turned back to the door and put his gun away. Flashing his badge and ID, he said, “It’s Jackson. I have to talk to you.”
He heard an intake of breath then the door swung back.
And he took in the sight of her, standing there, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her skin pale as she tried to find air. Jackson heard the dog’s snarl but ignored it.
“Eloise,” he said, reaching for the door.
She swayed, her eyes fluttering, her head dropping.
Jackson stepped inside and caught her before she passed out. The dog went into a frenzied stance, barking and dancing in circles. Jackson issued a sharp command. The animal kept snarling but he stayed away.
“Eloise, it’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”
She felt tiny in his arms, fragile. She looked almost the same, older but still beautiful in spite of the jagged white scar bursting through the pale skin near her lips and the deep circles of fatigue underneath her eyes. And she was still afraid. Her whole body began to quiver with a gentle shaking as she held on to him, her head moving in denial against his shoulder.
“Subject safe,” he said. “Stand down.” He clicked off his wire with a touch to his wrist, shutting down any
