remembered when he’d given it to her. Nate’s voice was so clear in her head, even now. He’d told her she should call that number if she ever needed help. That if she were ever in trouble, he would come. No matter what.
There was no reason to pick up the phone. He’d been dead seventeen months. But she did, anyway. She picked it up and dialed, and when the man answered on the second ring, she barely heard him say “Gino’s Pizza.”
“I’m—” She had to clear her throat again, and damn, enough with the tears. “I’m Nate Pratchett’s sister.”
“No Nate works here, miss.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“Sorry.”
“Everybody’s sorry,” she said. “Everybody wishes they could help. But they can’t.”
“Did you want a pie?”
“No. I want help. But you can’t do that. Never mind.” She hung up.
It took her a long time to move again. In fact, it was Milo to the rescue yet again. He knew. He knew she was in pain, that she was desperate, and in all the world, he was the only one who did a thing. He loved her.
Once she could move again, she started where she’d left off. Going through every piece of paper, taking only the essentials. She thought about bringing her address book, but when she flipped through it, there were only work contacts and the few friends she’d managed to avoid since this began. After the book club fiasco, she’d been scared to let anyone in. Scared she’d get them hurt, or worse.
It was dark when she stood up. Time to feed Milo.
Once again, she went through the motions. Giving Milo his dinner, taking him to another street, this time in Beverly Hills. But driving back, she almost fell asleep, and it was only furious honking from a Hummer that prevented a head-on collision.
So she wouldn’t leave tonight. If she could just get a few hours of sleep, it would be okay. She could pack her clothes in the morning. Now, all she wanted was to be home. To get in bed. To please, God, wake up and find out this was all a nightmare.
She got part of her wish. Safely home, she locked everything up, took a fast shower. She put on her most comfortable old T-shirt. It was stretched out and so thin it was held together by hope, but it was soft and it comforted. Then she called her dog and they both climbed into her bed.
As she put her head on the pillow, she stared up at the dark ceiling. Would she ever sleep in this bed again? The sheets had been a splurge, eight hundred thread count. The headboard had been custom-made of cherry-wood. Her own design. It was one of the things she loved most about her house. Her bathroom was, too. A shower that had nooks built in for candles. Jerusalem tile she’d picked out piece by piece. The bathtub was oversized with twelve jets and a sound system built into the walls.
She went through a list of all the moments, the decisions, the construction process that led to the dream becoming reality. This was more her home than anywhere she’d ever lived, including her parents’ house of her childhood. She’d put her soul into this place, and tomorrow morning she would walk out the door, and she had no faith at all that she would ever come back.
One man had taken her life. It would have been kinder if he’d simply killed her. She’d thought about doing the job herself, but she couldn’t go through with it. She’d fought her whole life, she couldn’t give up now. Even though she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for.
Milo moved, pressing his front paws into her thigh. She welcomed the contact. She’d always loved her pup, but never so much as in the last months. What would she have done without him?
Oddly, that thought led her straight to Nate. Her big brother had been the one to teach her to be strong. Neither of her parents had been. It was Nate who’d taught her not to take any guff from guys. He’d even told her, in a most enlightening and embarrassing afternoon, about sex. He’d been the one who’d walked her to school. Who had helped with her homework. Who had been there for her, always.
And then, he was gone. At the time, she’d thought it was the worst pain she’d ever have to face. Even worse than her father’s Alzheimer’s. Worse than her mother’s obliviousness to most of Christie’s life. It still hurt her terribly to think of Nate. Especially now when she needed him the most.
She closed her eyes, vaguely surprised that she wasn’t crying. Maybe she didn’t have any more tears left. Maybe those had been taken along with her faith in law enforcement, her faith in the whole concept of right and wrong. Everything had changed, and it was all out of her control. No matter how hard she fought, it was tilting at windmills.
She had the clothes on her back. Her car. Milo. She had a degree and a trade. Somehow, she’d claw her way back to her life. If he didn’t follow her.
That was a really huge if. Just one more thing she didn’t have faith in.
Could she live the rest of her life in terror? Did she even want to?
She turned over, clutched her pillow and prayed for sleep.
SHE HAD NO IDEA WHY SHE woke up. Only that Milo wasn’t there.
Had she heard something? Her gaze went to the bedside clock. It was one-twenty in the morning, and as she strained to hear, there was only silence.
He’d probably gone out the doggie door to the backyard. Or gone for a drink of water. There was nothing to be worried about, no reason for her heart to pound in her chest and her throat to close with fear. It wasn’t the first time she’d freaked out over nothing.
She pushed back the bedcovers anyway, and reached into her bedside drawer to pull out her gun. The one she’d bought three months ago, after the first time the bastard had been in her house. It didn’t matter that she’d always been afraid of them. If he was here, he wasn’t getting out alive.
The room was dark, but once she got into the hall, the night-light would give her strength. Tiptoeing, her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the hardwood floor to the door.
She paused there, listening again. Nothing. No sound. Wait. It was Milo. His low whine.
If the bastard hurt her dog, she’d shoot off his pecker.
Taking another careful step, she reached the hall. The night-light illuminated the space slightly. It didn’t make her feel better. There was no one there, and she was tempted for a moment to go back to her bedroom and lock the door. But she’d never rest until she found out why Milo was whining.
Her heart pounding, she entered the living room. The first thing she saw was her dog, and he was staring. Not at her. Behind her.
She turned and her Glock was ripped from her hand. It banged on the floor, as another hand, his hand, pulled her to his body, her back to his front. As she tried to scream, his hand covered her mouth. Everything was tight and real and she knew this was it. She was going to die.
Milo leapt at the man, but he sidestepped, taking her with him. She willed the dog to bite the bastard right in the balls. Instead, she kicked the man, connecting with his leg. She heard a grunt, and then a voice.
“Stop it,” he whispered. “Christie, just stop.”
