Ransom. Terri Reed

       ONE

      A crash from her sister’s bedroom brought Liz Cantrell bolt upright on the couch. She was alone in the apartment she shared with her sister and had been seated with her feet tucked beneath her, trying hard to be interested in the movie on the television with no success. She muted the sound and listened.

      A floorboard creaked.

      No way was that from the blustery January wind outside her second-story apartment.

      Someone was definitely in Jillian’s room.

      Alarm flooded Liz’s veins.

      “Please, Lord,” she whispered as she fumbled to grab her phone from her sweatpants’ pocket.

      A thud and then a man’s deep growl jolted her into action.

      No time to call for help. She had to get out of there. Fast. She jumped to her feet and hurried to open the apartment door. The hinge squeaked as loud as a shotgun blast.

      Thunder rumbled through the apartment.

      Not thunder, but feet. A tall figure, wearing a plastic masquerade mask like those worn at Mardi Gras time and dressed all in black, rushed out of Jillian’s room. He had Jillian’s big burl-wood jewelry box—thankfully not their mother’s special jewelry box—in his gloved hands, spilling the contents of Jillian’s costume jewelry on the floor as he ran toward Liz.

      Adrenaline fueled her fear. She whirled away and ran for the stairs leading to her family’s antique shop, her slippers snagging on the old carpet. The walls of the stairwell seemed to close in on her. She hated dark, confined spaces.

      She pushed through her anxiety to scuttle down the stairs as fast as she could. The man came after her, breathing down her neck like a monster from a horror flick, adding to the fear tightening her chest and constricting her throat.

      Before she reached the bottom of the staircase, the burglar grabbed a handful of her hair. With a painful jerk, he brought her to a halt and pushed her face-first against the stairwell wall. Pain exploded in her cheek and radiated through her head. Would he kill her? She squeezed her eyes tight, tensing her body in preparation to fight back and sent up an urgent prayer. God, help me! Help me, please.

      “Where’s the necklace?” her attacker growled in her ear. His hot, stale breath made her gag.

      “What?” Liz struggled to process what was happening. Why had this man broken into her home? What was he talking about? “What necklace?”

      “Come on, Jillian, Travis bragged to me he’d lifted it from Santini’s shipment to give to you. Since Travis is so stupid to not keep his mouth shut, he doesn’t deserve it. And neither does Santini, the pig.” He pressed his weight into her, his knee jamming into her thigh, his elbow crammed into her back at the tender spot below her ribs. “Give it to me or I’ll kill you!”

      His words beat into her, almost paralyzing her with terror. He thought she was Jillian. What would the man do when he realized she wasn’t Jillian but rather her sister? Kill her, then go after Jillian? She couldn’t let that happen. She had to protect her little sister.

      Stark terror spurred her to action. She kicked her heel back hard and connected with his shin, eliciting a grunt. She followed with a backward elbow jab to his sternum just as her godfather, the town sheriff, had taught her when she was in high school.

      The assailant’s hold loosened. She grasped her hair and yanked the clump free from his hand, ignoring the biting pain of strands being ripped from her head. She fled down the remaining stairs into the dark store. He chased after her.

      The street lamp outside provided enough light for her to navigate through the antiques filling every square space of the shop her father had bequeathed to her and her sister.

      She knocked over a short bookcase filled with rare first editions, hoping to slow her attacker for fear he’d catch her before she could escape.

      She made it to the front door and flipped the latch. The door unlocked with a click that was drowned out by her shallow breathing. Opening the door would trigger the silent alarm and send the authorities. With a vicious push, she burst out of the store into the frigid night air, nearly bowling over an older couple walking a big Rottweiler. The dog strained against his leash and barked.

      “Help me, please!” She grasped at the older man’s arm.

      While the couple stood there, mouths agape, she caught a glimpse of the masked man as he barreled out the door onto the sidewalk. He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze landing on the Rottweiler. He backed up as his gaze jumped to Liz and the elderly couple. With an audible rumble of frustration, he bolted in the opposite direction and disappeared down the darkened street.

      A whoosh of relief gushed through her, followed closely by an invading sense of violation. The man had broken into her home and assaulted her. Why was he searching for the mysterious necklace? Neither she nor her sister owned anything of value. He’d said Travis had lifted it—stolen, he meant. Liz had never thought much of Travis from the moment Jillian had brought him home to meet her.

      “Oh, my,” the gray-haired elderly woman exclaimed. “We should call the police.”

      The older man patted his pockets. “I don’t have my phone with me.”

      “I do,” Liz said just as the jangle of her cell phone in her sweatpants’ pocket startled her. With shaky hands, she fished the device out and glanced at the caller ID.

      Jillian.

      Liz’s heart jumped. An icy rush of dread washed over her. After the harrowing experience of the break-in, Liz’s imagination took flight with all sorts of horrific scenarios.

      She pressed the answer button. “Jillian?”

      “Lizzie, I need you to do something for me.” Jillian’s voice came over the line with a definite quiver.

      Every nerve ending in Liz’s body alerted, ready to do whatever was needed to help her baby sister. “Are you okay?”

      “I need you to bring me Mom’s jewelry box. It’s tucked into the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

      “What’s going on, Jillian? Some man just broke in—”

      “Lizzie, listen to me. I need you to do this.” Jillian’s sharp tone was so out of character. Pleading, wheedling and coaxing was more her style. Something was definitely wrong.

      “Jillian, Travis is mixed—”

      Jillian’s yelp cut Liz off. The sound of a scuffle on the other end of the line terrified her.

      “Jillian!”

      “Listen up,” a deep male voice said into Liz’s ear, sending a shiver of fear down her spine. “If you ever want to see your sister again, alive, you’ll bring the necklace to Fort George by noon Monday. Come alone. No police, or your sister and her no-good husband are dead.”

      Panic

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