the house with the address his supervisor had given him for Heather Miller, made a U-turn about a mile up, then returned, pulling in alongside an Amish buggy that had been abandoned across the street and partially obscured his truck. Based on his limited interaction with Heather Miller during Fox’s trial, he’d learned that she had gone off the grid for ten years, fearful for her life. But a year ago she resurfaced after Fox’s arrest for murdering Zach’s sister. Heather’s testimony had been instrumental in putting him away for a long time.
For that, Zach was grateful.
Then, nine months ago, according to his boss, this real estate transaction in Quail Hollow popped up with her name on it. Poor woman probably let her guard down after Fox was arrested, figuring she’d be safe.
She should have been safe.
Drawing in a deep breath, he knew he had a job to do. He had to push aside his personal demons. His personal need for revenge. His job was to get Miss Miller into protective custody until Fox was back rotting in jail.
Zach killed the headlights on his truck, then studied the property, wondering why Fox’s first wife had moved to a farm in Quail Hollow. From what he knew about her, she had grown up in Buffalo, New York. Not exactly the country. Maybe this was her way of starting over after Fox’s imprisonment.
The reason why Heather Miller was out here in the middle of nowhere wasn’t important right now. Securing her was.
Fox wasn’t likely to announce himself, and the darkness didn’t help. Zach thought he knew dark. But the blackness in the country during a rainstorm was unlike anything he had experienced. The wipers smearing the rain didn’t help the cause.
He grabbed his cell phone from the middle console of his truck and called his boss. The call took a few extra minutes to connect. “I’m sitting outside Heather Miller’s house. I’m going to check out the property before I try to make contact.”
“Okay. Once you have her secure, report back in. And, Zach...be careful. Local law enforcement reported that Fox may have stolen guns from a home near the correctional facility. There was a break-in shortly after his escape.”
Zach ended the call, then tucked the phone into the interior pocket of his jacket. He climbed out of the truck and closed the door with a quiet snick. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain was still coming down steadily. The temperature had plummeted with the storm, not unusual in September in Western New York.
Maybe that meant Fox was hunkered down somewhere and not stalking his ex-wife.
As long as Fox wasn’t hunkered down here.
Zach crossed the street, giving the house a wide berth, as if it might hold secrets. He noticed a light on in the kitchen that hadn’t been on when he pulled up.
He scanned the landscape. There were a lot of outbuildings for a person to hide in. He was making his way around the back of the house when he heard a rustling at the back door. Sliding his gun from its holster, he rushed toward the door, focusing intently on the sound.
A person—a woman, based on her petite stature—stood on the porch with a flashlight. What’s she doing? Before he had a chance to announce himself, she let out a scream that sent all his senses on high alert. The flashlight fell from her hands and landed with a thud on the porch. The light went dark. She spun around, pushed through the open door, then slammed it shut.
Zach froze in his tracks. He holstered his gun and lifted his hands in a nonthreatening gesture. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than he already had.
“I’m calling the police,” she yelled from inside the door. “Leave now!”
Zach reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his credentials. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker. We met last year at Brian Fox’s trial. I don’t think my ID will fit under the door. Go to a window. I’ll show you.”
“Go away.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come back during the day. That’s what a normal person would do.”
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t bother you so late at night if it wasn’t important.”
Silence stretched between them. He didn’t hear any movements on the other side of the door, so he assumed she was still standing there debating what to do. After a moment, he heard rustling behind the door that sounded much like a dead bolt sliding out of place. The door opened a crack. A brass chain glinted when he lifted the flashlight she had dropped. A swift kick would have snapped the chain on the door, but he needed her cooperation, not her fear.
Heather squinted and lifted her hand to block the beam of light.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Slip your ID between the crack. Hurry up.” She spoke with an authority he hadn’t anticipated.
Zach passed his ID through the narrow opening between the door and frame. She slammed the door shut. The dead bolt snapped back into place. After a long minute, he heard the slide of the chain and she opened the door.
Heather Miller planted a fist on her hip and a dark shadow crossed her face. “Marshal Walker. This can’t be good.”
“No. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Brian Fox escaped and we fear he’s coming for you.”
Heather glared at the U.S. Marshal standing on her back porch in the middle of the night, his familiar face reminding her of how far she had come. His mere presence making her feel like everything she had worked so hard to build these past nine months was about to slip away.
No, no, Brian Fox was locked up in Peters Correctional Facility.
“May I come inside?” The deputy U.S. Marshal had a valid request. The small porch provided little protection from the weather. And the wind and rain pelting against the metal roof of the overhang was scraping across her every last nerve.
“Yes, of course.” She would not allow herself to melt into a puddle of panic. She was not the woman she used to be. Despite her best efforts, her gaze drifted to the darkened yard beyond her porch and a chill crept up her spine. “Come in, Deputy U.S. Marshal.” She opened the door wider for him.
“Thanks, and please call me Zach.” He slipped in past her, the rain from his coat dripping on the floor. He turned slowly to face her. In the yellow glow of the kitchen, she noticed the handsome angles of his face. The same intensity in his eyes from when she’d first met him at Brian’s trial was still evident. Her ex-husband had murdered his little sister.
“How did Brian get out? I don’t understand. He’s in a maximum-security prison. You must be mistaken.” Her mouth suddenly went dry and her knees threatened to give out from under her. She sensed she was standing on the edge, feeling like the unstable cliff she had built her new life upon was about to crumble beneath her.
“I understand he had help from the inside.”
“No... How? I don’t understand...” She shook her head slowly. The man who was standing in her kitchen grew blurry.
The
