Her breathing quickened as spider feet scrabbled up her spine. Her stomach cramped with a sudden thought, what if the killer had come back?
Would he do that? But why?
Adrenaline pumping, she fumbled to remember where she’d left her purse, which held her BlackBerry.
The recliner. In the corner by the fireplace. Guided by eyes adjusting to the darkness and the dim hall light, she crept across the floor to the chair and shoved her hand into her purse, located the device and snatched it out.
She realized she still had her shoes on: low-heeled black pumps she’d worn to the funeral. Sliding them off, she set them aside and tried to think of a possible hiding place. The kitchen pantry? Or should she try to slip out the front door?
Lord, what do I do?
A sense of urgency caused her hands to shake. She felt more vibrations and a hard thud sent her adrenaline into overdrive. Was that a muttered curse she picked up? She inched the volume up on her hearing aid but had to be careful not to bump it up too far or it would start whistling.
Then she tuned in to Twister’s furious barking, causing her to flinch. He’d probably been barking for a while if he’d already reached the pitch she needed to hear him.
With her heart thudding and her blood pounding, her brain switched to survival mode. Her fingers found the numbers on her BlackBerry and punched Send.
She needed help fast.
Someone was in her house.
FOUR
Ethan leaned back in the squeaky chair, tapping the pencil against his chin, staring at the ceiling as weariness washed over him. He should be in bed. But the nightmare had returned full force, and his escape to his desk had been the only thing that had allowed him to push the memories to the back of his mind.
Thankfully, it hadn’t been the dream about the death of his sister. Unfortunately, it had been the one about his other failure. A hostage situation. The one where he’d been in charge and the woman had died. He’d just finished his crisis negotiation training, fresh from his sister’s funeral… and drunk. Oh, not stumbling, falling-down drunk, but he’d definitely had one too many. And he’d made a very bad decision that cost a young woman her life. At least he felt as if it was his fault. He was supposed to have had backup, someone with more experience, but the man hadn’t shown up in time. So, it had fallen to Ethan…and he’d failed.
His fault…all his fault.
The words echoed in his mind. I’m sorry, God. Are You listening? I’m sorry.
The pencil snapped with a crack. Startled, Ethan dropped the pieces to his desk, then rubbed his bleary eyes, wishing he could make it all go away. But he couldn’t.
So, here he sat at approximately three o’clock in the morning, trying to make sense of Suzanne’s murder. The place wasn’t exactly a ghost town, since other officers, suffering a similar affliction to Ethan’s, chose to work the graveyard shift. He grimaced when realizing he felt more comfortable at his desk than he did in his home.
His personal cell vibrated on his hip, and he sat up with a start. Who in the world…? A quick glance at the caller ID showed Marianna’s cell number. He’d memorized it with ease the first time he’d seen it in her file.
Dread hit his chest. She must be in trouble. Why else would she be calling at this time of night…morning. With his left hand, he grabbed his keys; with his right, he pulled the phone from the clip.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Hello?” He raced for the door and down to his car. She couldn’t hear him, but surely she could see that he’d answered. Why didn’t she say something?
Unless she couldn’t. He had the bad feeling his first reaction—that she was in trouble—was right. Indecision, fear of making the wrong move, made him pause for a fraction of a second; then he found himself praying. A simple litany. Let me get there in time. Let me save her.
Bolting from the office, he raced for his car.
* * *
Marianna prayed silently as she felt another tremor beneath her stockinged feet. The vibration felt stronger. Once again she had called 911 and had no way of knowing if the police were on the way. She’d placed a call to Ethan as backup, praying he would wake up to hear his phone ringing.
More vibrations. Was that a door slamming? It felt closer. Was he searching for her? Whatever he was doing, he was heading her way. Panting her fear, she clung desperately to control, forcing her mind to think, to reason, to figure a way out. Visions of Suzanne lying on her bedroom floor, blood pooling beneath her head, caused a wave of nausea followed by dizziness to rush through her.
Her world turned choppy, the survival instinct strong. Her eyes darted around the room.
The fireplace. The poker. A weapon.
Then a thump. Vibrations. Marianna quickly moved toward the front door, her hand now on the knob. It was locked, of course.
More of Twister’s furious barking, then nothing. Worry for her pet churned within her. Oh, God, protect Twister. Did she have time to get out, or should she hide? Would whoever was in her house come looking for her? How much time had the dog bought her?
Shaking hands fumbled with the dead bolt. Precious seconds ticked by as the key fell to the floor. The thumping stopped, vibrations ceased. She froze, her breath strangling her as she tried not to gasp, desperately wishing she could hear how much noise she was making.
Her BlackBerry buzzed in her pocket; she ignored it. Trembling, she bent down, snatched the key, jammed it in the lock and finally got the door open. She slipped out the opening, onto the porch, and felt hard hands grasp her upper arms.
* * *
Marianna’s screech nearly ruptured Ethan’s eardrums. He hadn’t meant to scare her, but she’d come stumbling out the door so fast that if he hadn’t caught her, she’d have taken them both to the floor of the cement porch.
Twisting, struggling against him, she had her eyes closed. “Marianna, it’s me.” She can’t understand with her eyes closed, remember?
Not knowing whether to let go or give her a shake, he figured releasing her might surprise her into opening her eyes. He let go and stepped back. She stumbled, gasped and opened terror-filled, tar-black eyes to stare at him. Finally, recognition dawned, and relief swept away the fear…for a moment. Then she whispered, “He’s in my house. I dialed 911, so the police should be on the way.”
Ethan set her behind him and stepped in. His right hand pulled his ever-present gun from his shoulder holster. Pointing the weapon to the ceiling, he turned and mouthed to Marianna, “Stay here, okay?”
She nodded, then whispered in a small, worried voice, “Something’s happened to Twister, too. He was barking his head off, then stopped abruptly. So be careful.”
Lips tight, Ethan gave a nod, pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt and dialed a number requesting backup. After he hung up, he stepped back
