to slime, her doorbell rang. Frowning, she glanced up at the kitchen clock. It was after 7:00 p.m. She rolled her eyes. It was probably some kids selling candy for a school fundraiser or hawking subscriptions to the daily paper.
She went to the door and looked through the peephole but saw nothing. She put the chain on and opened the door a crack. “Yes?” she said, letting impatience tinge her tone.
“Molly, hi.”
The familiar voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was Ray. How had he gotten her address? As soon as the question flitted through her mind, she berated herself for her stupidity. He was an FBI agent. He probably had a file with everything from the address of her first-grade teacher to the date of her last period.
“What are you doing here?” she asked tiredly.
“Open up. I need to talk to you.”
She peered through the tiny opening allowed by the chain. He was standing a nonthreatening foot and a half away from the door. “I’m not dressed.”
That crooked smile raised the corners of his mouth. “Ha. That shouldn’t be a problem. From what I remember, you probably have two closets full of clothes in there.”
“Bite me,” she said and pushed the door closed. But she didn’t walk away. Her mistake.
“Molly, please.”
Her heart gave a little jump. He’d closed that nonthreatening eighteen inches by at least twelve. It sounded as though he’d put his mouth to the crack between the door and the facing.
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