on the corner of Lincoln and Lewis, he saw a familiar figure with fuchsia hair and a bright orange T-shirt climbing in the window of a house.
Claire Richards used to live there, until she’d married Luke’s twin brother, Mark, and they’d moved to California. Renters were few and far between in Mercy, and the home had fallen into disrepair and become a teen party hangout over the last twelve months. His mother had mentioned something about a new person moving in, but Luke had barely caught the comment and didn’t remember if his mother had said there was a tenant already in residence or soon to be.
The house was dark, looked empty. Emily would see it as the perfect hiding place.
Luke parked his Chevy in front of the neighbor’s house. He snuck down the drive, around to the back of Claire’s, then hoisted himself into the window Emily had disappeared through.
Anita bolted upright in bed. The sound she’d heard coming from the next bedroom—the one she’d started setting up as an office—hadn’t come from a mouse. Unless the mouse had invited a few million friends over for a canned-ham-and-marmalade party.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Images of her certain demise flashed through her mind: the coroner shaking his head at the woefully unprepared corpse, the headline decrying the loss of the newest Mercy resident and all that wasted food from the Welcoming Committee.
Anita took a deep breath, clearing her head.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. In the half light of the moon through the curtainless windows she didn’t see anything remotely lethal, unless she counted one pair of red spike heels.
Then, in the corner, a box labeled “Kitchen,” left there when she got too tired to move anything else. Eureka. She prayed for a rolling pin, maybe even that cast-iron waffle maker she’d never used but felt compelled to tote across the country, in case she ever had a hankering for homemade Belgians.
Anita crept out of bed, snuck over to the box and pried open the cardboard lid. From the other room, a scuffling sound. She held her breath, praying Jack the Ripper wasn’t about to lunge through the door and show off his superior surgical skills.
She pulled out the first thing her hand lighted on. A Teflon skillet. Twelve inches of coated aluminum, with a wooden handle. Not a heck of a lot more lethal than the stilettos, but easier to wield and requiring far less accuracy.
Anita got to her feet, steadying her stomach with her hand when a wave of nausea threatened to undo her. She crept out of her room, down the short hall and toward the next doorway. Like a SWAT-team leader, she plastered herself to the wall, peeking around the corner, pan at the ready above her head.
At first, she didn’t see much but then, a flash at the window.
A man was on the window ledge, heaving himself into the room. A large man. Son of Sam size. Anita slithered around the doorway, pressed herself to the wall and crept barefoot around the perimeter of the room.
He didn’t notice her. He was too busy huffing and puffing his way through a B and E. He paused, his hands propped on the sill. Anita reached him and before she could think about what she was about to do, she raised the pan, then swung it down as hard as she could. Her muscles—or maybe her conscience—flickered at the last second, turning her crushing blow into nothing more than a cornflake-crunching glance.
The man let out an oomph, lifted his hands to ward off future attacks and promptly fell forward, landing face first with a thud on the wood floor.
Anita raised the pan, ready to strike again. She hesitated.
There was a man on her floor. A large man. If she knocked him out, how would she ever get him out the door? That is, if she could even open the door. She could call the police, but her phone still wasn’t hooked up and for all she knew, Mercy, being such a small town, didn’t have a full-time police department, just some local yokels who probably took the law into their own hands after work. Maybe she should get the stilettos. Threaten him with the pointy end and make him crawl out.
But first, she’d be smart. Force him to fix that door. And maybe move the kitchen table to the other side of the room. Every once in a while, her choice to be manless presented a few logistical problems.
Anita hoisted the pan higher. If worse came to worse, she could tie him up with the useless telephone line and leave him for the mouse.
“Hey! That’s my dad!” A female voice shrieked behind her. “Don’t hit him!” Before Anita could react, the pan was yanked out of her hand by a girl not much bigger than her.
The man on the floor groaned. He put a hand to his head and rolled over. “Who are you and what are you doing in Claire’s—” He leaned forward, blinking. “Anita?”
She knew that voice. And that face. It couldn’t be him. Absolutely, positively could not be him. She could almost hear Rod Serling humming “Do-do, do-do…” in her ear.
The man on her floor wasn’t a bungled burglar. He was…
“Luke?”
“Dad! Don’t talk to her. She’s crazy. Not to mention, she tried to kill you.” The girl dropped the pan on the floor and crossed to her father. Anita remembered meeting his daughter—Emily was her name—a couple of times when the girl had still worn pigtails. Now she hovered over Luke, not touching him, feigning indifference, but it was clear she was concerned. “Are you, like, okay?”
“I’m fine.” Luke got to his feet, brushing off his pants as he did. He turned to Anita, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. “If that’s how you say hello, I’d hate to see you say goodbye.”
Chapter Two
Luke didn’t bother to contain his surprise at seeing Anita in Mercy. It had been at least fifteen months since he’d seen her, and now she was living three blocks from him? What puzzle piece had he missed? “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Why?”
“Hey, you’re the one breaking and entering.” Anita bent to retrieve the skillet. When she did, her oversize nightshirt rode up, exposing long, creamy legs. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated her face with a soft glow. “Since I’m holding the Teflon, I’ll ask the questions. Why are you climbing through my office window?”
“I was looking for Emily, who didn’t come home when she was supposed to.” He shot his pink-haired daughter the parental evil eye. She shrugged and got busy drawing a circle on the floor with her toe. “I saw her climbing into your house and went in after her.”
“I was just looking for a place to crash,” Emily muttered.
“You were avoiding punishment,” Luke said. “For that…” He gestured, wordless, at her neondyed head.
Emily let out a chuff of disgust, crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate my life.”
Anger boiled up inside of Luke. “Emily Anne, get in the car right now. You’re grounded for the next three hundred years.”
Emily parked her fists on her hips. “You can’t make me.”
Luke half expected
