but I don’t want to be afraid. Help me trust You.
The curtain in the window to the right of the door moved; a black nose pressed against the glass. The familiar sight caused her to release a relieved breath.
Twister’s welcome home. He was waiting for her.
Marianna scrambled from the car, grabbing the overnight bag Joseph had packed for her the day of the murder, and headed for the door.
Climbing the steps, she paused, noticing the footprint had disappeared. Someone had scrubbed it away. Shuddering, unease still very much present, she unlocked the door and pushed it open.
And gaped.
Her house sparkled, from top to bottom. Someone had scrubbed, mopped, vacuumed and more.
How…what…who?
Ethan.
She frowned. Now why did she automatically assume it was him? It could have been Joseph or some other member of her family.
Someone had hired a professional to clean up the mess left by the criminal and the crime scene investigators. Her heart warmed at the thoughtfulness as grateful tears blurred her vision. A piece of paper lay on the table just inside the foyer. Picking it up, she read, “I didn’t want you to come home to a mess. Hope everything is better than when you left it. Ethan.”
“Thank you, Ethan,” she whispered.
Twister nudged her hand and whined. Absentmindedly, she scratched his head as she went from room to room, examining everything.
A lump clogged her throat as she moved, sensing Suzanne’s presence even though she was now with the Lord.
When she reached Suzanne’s room, the door stood open, inviting. Hitching her breath, she stepped in and looked around. It, too, had been scrupulously cleaned.
And stripped bare. Suzanne’s family had come and gone, leaving not even a trace of their presence. Or Suzanne’s. Unable to stop herself, she looked to the spot where her roommate had died.
Even the stain was gone. It was as if Suzanne had never been there. Marianna walked over and knelt, running her hand over the area, feeling the carpet spring back beneath her palm. Anger, fear and a troubled helplessness burned within her.
Help the police find her killer. And help me deal with this, Lord. Please give me peace.
Tired beyond belief, Marianna called to Twister and stepped from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Entering her bedroom next door, she stared at the familiar sight of her haven that was supposed to offer comfort and knew she couldn’t sleep here tonight. Her stomach rumbled, but she had no energy to fix anything to eat. Doing a one-eighty, she trod the short distance to the small living area and crashed on the couch. She pulled out her hearing aids and laid them on the end table beside her.
All sound ceased to exist for her, and all she wanted to do was snuggle into the silence.
Twister settled on the floor beside her and she let her hand dangle over the edge to rest on his back as she stared at the ceiling, thinking, praying, drifting.…
With a start, Marianna’s eyes popped open, confusion holding her captive until her brain caught up. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. But something had awakened her. A vibration: Twister?
Darkness blanketed the room broken only by the glow of the night-light coming from the hall. The clock on the DVD player read 3:18 a.m.
What had awakened her? Rubbing her face, then running a hand through her tangled hair, she swung her feet to the floor, eyes probing the blackness. That was odd. Where was Twister?
Uneasiness swept over her. The hardwoods floor beneath her trembled. No doubt the vibrations had awakened her. Fingers groped the table beside her, grabbed up her hearing aids and shoved them in her ears.
Still, mostly silence surrounded her.
Again the floor shook. As though cushioning a footstep? Uneasiness climbed into fear. She strained to hear something, anything. 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
