tonight. Laurel Gillespie didn’t like to be wrong.
His thoughts drifted to his first view of her behind in that tight gray skirt. What a surprise she was. He’d barely remembered her from high school. And only because of his brother’s involvement in the prank the—what had she called them—the CeeGees had played on her. James, arrogant and assured, had thought it was hilarious.
A pang of compassion for Laurel and the CeeGees’s other victims pricked his conscience. He hadn’t been involved, but could he have stopped James if he’d tried? He doubted it.
At least Laurel hadn’t let their cruel jokes wreck her life. She was in the FBI—and not just a field agent. She worked for an elite division stationed in D.C.
He punched his pillow again, then stuffed it back under his neck. He’d dreamed of being an FBI agent once, before James had died.
Even in death, his brother had bested him. All his life, Cade had worshiped James. He’d wanted to be just like him.
James should have been the one to take over the job of police chief in Dusty Springs. But instead, he’d joined the Air Force. Then, within five years, he was gone. And as his dad had just said, Cade was the only son he had left.
So when his dad had his stroke, Cade had come home to Dusty Springs. Now here he was five years later, Chief of Police just like his dad and granddad, and still angry at his brother for dying.
Cade knew the job he was doing was honorable and important, but he’d never intended to stay in Dusty Springs, where he’d always be in the shadow of his brother. After he’d returned, it had gotten even worse. It was hard enough to live up to a shining star like James. But it was impossible when the star was a hero who’d given his life for his country.
He uttered a short laugh. Just went to show how different real life was from high school. He’d been determined to outdo James. And he’d come close. In the high school yearbook, guys like him were Most Likely to Succeed or Most Popular or Mr. Dusty Springs High School—all those accolades that were so important back then.
Laurel, on the other hand, would be found in a group photo of the choir, or as a member of the Home Economics Club.
Strange how things turned out.
An odd sensation cramped his chest. Was he jealous of her success in the Bureau? Or even more so because she’d managed to leave Dusty Springs behind?
Nah. He just needed some sleep. Turning over, he pulled the sheet over him. In the morning, he’d dig out Wendell Vance’s old file. It couldn’t hurt to see if Laurel’s theory held any merit.
LAUREL WAS CAUGHT in traffic on the beltway. Car horns blared all around her. She was late already and now more cars were honking.
She jerked awake and met a slanted green gaze. Her heart slammed into her throat. “Eek! Cat.”
The feline hissed and jumped over her and off the bed. Her brain instantly processed her surroundings. Cat. Canopied bed. Misty’s house.
“Ssss yourself, Harriet. You scared me!”
Undaunted, Harriet leapt onto the foot of the bed and curled up on top of the covers.
The car horn still blared. It wasn’t just in her dream. It sounded like it was right outside the house. Her rental car?
She sighed, glancing at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m. Of course it was her car.
She got up and slid her feet into thong sandals. By habit, she grabbed her weapon and her car keys on her way out.
As soon as she opened the front door, she saw the rental car’s emergency lights blinking. She ran out, unlocked the car door, jumped into the driver’s seat and deactivated the alarm. Once it was quiet, she sat there for a moment, looking up and down the street.
The night was moonless, and the streetlights gave off very little illumination.
Nothing. Not even a fluttering curtain. After the excitement earlier, she couldn’t believe no one had stuck their head out to see what the noise was. Still, car alarms went off all the time, probably even in Dusty Springs.
But something must have triggered it. Had someone tried to break into her car?
After a few seconds, she got out and inspected the vehicle. There were no scrapes or dents. No sign of force on the windows or doors. Maybe a kid had tried the door to see if it was unlocked.
With a last look around the deserted street, she walked back up the steps to the house. She opened the door cautiously, watching to be sure she didn’t let the cat out.
Just as she closed the door behind her, a blast of cold stinging spray hit her in the face. Surprise and burning pain streaked through her like lightning.
After a split second’s shock, she ducked and rolled but it was too late. She’d been maced. Her face burned like fire. Her eyes wouldn’t open. The pain was agonizing.
Then a blanket was thrown over her head and a shoe kicked her in the ribs. She curled into a fetal position. It was all she could do. She was blinded by the Mace.
Her attacker kicked her again, this time in the kidney. She grunted. Then the front door opened and slammed.
Laurel fought the suffocating blanket. She finally got it off her. Pulling herself up to her hands and knees she felt for her weapon. It was gone. She crawled blindly toward the bathroom, feeling around the hardwood floor. The gun must have slid farther than she’d thought.
Finally, her fingers encountered cold ceramic tile. Her eyes leaked tears, even though she had them squeezed tightly shut. She crawled to the bathtub and felt for the cold water faucet.
Taking a deep breath, she splashed her face. The water made everything burn twice as badly, but it eventually washed away the sticky pepper spray.
Laurel leaned over the tub and kept sluicing her face and eyes. After what seemed like hours, the pain lessened to a manageable level.
She sat on the floor, her chest heaving with huge sobs. But there was no time to indulge herself. She had to find her Glock. If whoever had attacked her had taken it—alarm squeezed her chest like a giant fist.
She pulled herself up using a towel rack. She was wobbly, and her eyes still burned. She felt her way out of the bathroom, alert to any sound. She’d thought she’d heard the front door slam, but she’d been in such pain she couldn’t be sure.
The intruder might still be inside the house.
She took a deep breath and coughed. Did she smell smoke, or was the Mace affecting her sense of smell? Forcing her eyes open, she saw a red, flickering glow coming from the den.
Fire! She lunged for the door. She rounded the frame and met the flames engulfing the dining room tabletop. They licked at the drapes.
“No!” Laurel cried. Misty’s pictures! She had to stop it. But before she could move, the drapes caught. In an instant the ancient fabric was swallowed up by flames and a tongue of fire licked out toward a damask-covered easy chair.
Helpless against the fast-growing
