an intruder in my home.”
Then, nothing.
Everything had gone dead.
Well, everything except Egan’s concerns. They were sky-high because two of the three previous murders in Cantara Hills and an attempted murder had been preceded by break-ins.
Just like this one.
And even though the person responsible, Vincent Montoya, had been murdered as well, there was obviously someone else. Montoya’s boss, maybe. Or someone with a different agenda. Maybe that someone was now right there in Caroline Stallings’s house.
Egan slapped aside some soggy weeping willow branches and raced toward the back of the house. He didn’t stop. Running, he checked the windows for any sign of the killer or Caroline Stallings. Enough lights were on to illuminate the place, but no one was in sight in the large solarium that he passed.
“I’m at the entry gate,” one of the guards said through the communicator. “My partner’s by the west fence. That covers both of the most likely exit routes, and San Antonio PD backup should be here soon to cover the others.”
Soon wasn’t soon enough. He needed backup now.
“I’m going in the house,” he told the guard. Egan had to make sure Caroline Stallings was alive and that she stayed that way. “If the intruder comes running out of there alone, try to make an arrest. If he doesn’t cooperate, if you have to shoot, then aim low for the knees. I want this SOB alive.”
Because this particular SOB might be able to answer some hard questions about the four deaths that’d happened in or around Cantara Hills in the past nine months.
Egan glanced around to make sure the intruder hadn’t escaped into the back or east yards. If he had, then it was a long drop down since the house was literally perched on the lip of a jagged limestone bluff. An escape over that particular wrought-iron fence could be suicide. But Egan did spot someone.
The brunette with a butcher knife.
She was standing just a few feet away on the porch near double stained-glass doors, and she had a white-knuckled grip on the gleaming ten-inch blade. Her bluegreen eyes were wide, her chest pumping with jolts of breath that strained her sleeveless turquoise top.
It was Caroline Stallings.
Alive, thank God. And she seemed unharmed.
Egan had seen her around Cantara Hills a couple of times in the past week since the Texas Rangers had been called in to solve three cold-case murders and then a hot one that’d happened only forty-eight hours earlier. During those other sightings, Ms. Stallings had always appeared so cool, rich and collected. She wasn’t so cool or collected now with her shaky composure and windswept dark brown hair.
But the rich part still applied.
Despite the fear and that god-awful big knife, she looked high priced, high rent and high maintenance.
She jumped when she saw him. And gasped. That caused her chest to pump even harder.
“Where’s the intruder?” Egan mouthed.
She used the knife blade to point in the direction of the left side of the house. The opposite location from where he’d come. “My bedroom,” she mouthed back. “I ran out here when I heard the noise.”
Wise move. From her vantage point, she could see a lot through that beveled glass, including an intruder if he was about to come after her.
She reached over, eased open the door, and Egan slipped inside through the kitchen. The floor was gray slate. Potentially noisy. So he lightened his steps.
There were yards of slick black granite countertops, stainless appliances that reflected like mirrors, and in the open front cabinets, precise rows of crystal glasses, all shimmering and cool. He lifted an eyebrow at the halfempty bag of Oreo cookies on the kitchen island.
The A/C spilled over him, chilling the rain that snaked down his face and back. “Has the intruder come out of your bedroom or moved past you to get to another part of the house?” he asked.
“No one’s come out of that room,” she insisted.
So Egan turned his ear in that direction and listened.
Well, that’s what he tried to do, anyway, but he couldn’t hear much, other than Caroline Stallings’s frantic breathing and her silk clothes rustling against her skin. She was obviously trembling from head to toe.
“When I came home from work, I noticed my security system wasn’t working. Then I heard someone moving around in my bedroom,” she muttered. “I dialed 9-1-1, they dispatched my call to you, and something or someone cut the line.”
Yes. The line had indeed gone dead. Egan had hoped it was because of the rain, but his gut told him otherwise. It wasn’t difficult to cut a phone line or disarm a security system, and perps usually did that when they wanted to sever their victim’s means of communication. Murder or something equally nasty usually followed. Hopefully, he’d prevented the “equally nasty” part from happening.
“And I found this thing in my car,” she added a moment later.
The vague thing got his attention. That wasn’t good, either. Egan didn’t want his attention on anything other than the intruder.
He glanced over his shoulder at Ms. Stallings and scowled at her so she’d hush. The scowl was still on his face when he heard the sound. Not breathing or rustlings on silk. It came from the direction of her bedroom, and it sounded as if someone had opened a door.
“What’s the status of SAPD?” Egan whispered into the communicator.
“Not here yet,” was the guard’s response.
Egan silently cursed. It was decision time. He could stand there and continue to protect Ms. Stallings, or he could do something to catch a possible killer.
It didn’t take him but a second to decide.
“Follow me,” he instructed Caroline. “Stay low and don’t make a sound.”
She nodded and kept a firm grip on the butcher knife.
“And don’t accidentally stab me with that thing,” he snarled.
She tossed him a scowl of her own.
Egan took his first steps toward the bedroom, moving from the slate floor of the kitchen to some kind of exotic hardwood in the dining room and the foyer. He stopped. Listened. But he didn’t hear any indication that the intruder was coming their way. So he took another step. Then, another. Caroline Stallings followed right behind him.
From the massive foyer, it was well over twenty feet to her bedroom. The door was open, and he paused in the entryway to get a look around. It, too, was massive. At least four hundred square feet. He wasn’t surprised by all the space.
There were more dark hardwood floors and an equally dark four-poster bed frame, but nearly everything else was virginal white. The walls, the rugs, the high-end dresser and chest that were glossy white wood. It smelled like linen,
