Etta had told her she suspected the night cook’s motive for taking on the tavern’s janitorial duties after his wife left him was to delay going home to an empty apartment.
“It’s hard defending yourself when someone gets certain ideas into their head.” Howie shook his head. “There’s battles a person just can’t win.”
Regan pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She wasn’t trying to win a battle. She was trying to stay hidden.
After a few minutes of their working in silence, Howie raised a shoulder as he wielded the broom. “I expect havin’ Josh McCall in town’ll make Etta happy, being they’re close.”
Regan felt another stab of unease as she pictured McCall sitting at the bar, watching her just a bit too closely with those dark eyes. Eyes that had made her shiver as she fought their hypnotic pull. She had become so accustomed to the numb bleakness inside her that feeling even a slight attraction to any man unnerved her.
With all the chairs overturned, she walked to the jukebox, its light painting her arm gold as she reached to flip off the power. “Do you know McCall?”
“Sure. His family’s been coming to Sundown long as I can remember. Josh and Etta’s oldest boy were forever getting into mischief.” Howie nudged the mop bucket toward a corner. “Those two caught hell one summer when they raided the Camp Fire Girls overnight jamboree.” He chuckled as he put his back into mopping. “Now Etta’s oldest is a minister and Josh is a cop. Who’d have thought?”
“I figured out the cop part on my own,” Regan muttered.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.” She slid the key to her apartment out of her jeans pocket. “I’m going upstairs. Lock up when you leave.”
“Will do.”
Giving the area a last check, she headed toward a door on the opposite side of the barroom. After dealing with the lock, she reached in and flipped on the light. The narrow staircase was as straight as a ruler, with no shadowy nooks or crannies in which someone could hide.
At the top of the stairs she paused, making sure the dead bolt she’d installed on the door was still latched. A study of the door-jamb revealed no notches or pry marks. Everything appeared undisturbed.
Even so, she felt a twinge of apprehension as the lock snicked open. She would continue to feel uneasy until she checked the French doors leading to the balcony that spanned the rear of the building.
As she stepped inside what had been her safe haven for six months, the familiar sense of grief and loneliness hit her. Memories flashed toward dangerous places as her mind formed a picture of Steven’s house in New Orleans, filled with antiques and furniture covered in rich fabrics. It had been a home where gleaming tables were crammed with framed photographs. Where rare old books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves and expertly lit paintings hung on silk-covered walls.
She had planned to live the rest of her life in that house with the man she loved. Raise their children and grow old.
Her dream had ended over a year ago when she found Steven dead from what everyone believed was suicide. Weeks later, after another man died on her account, she’d learned the truth.
Since the moment I met you, you’ve disappointed me, cher. I shared that disappointment with your fiancé. And your partner. How many more times are you going to disappoint me?
Because Detective Payne Creath’s voice played all too clearly in her ears, because the words filled her with guilt and remorse she would never be free of, she wrenched her thoughts from the past. She had to think about now. Make sure she was safe for another night.
Her gaze swept the small living area, skimming across the orange-and-brown plaid sofa, matching chair and watermarked coffee table Etta had scored at a garage sale. The latest copy of the Sundown Sentinel lay on the table at the same angle she’d left it beside the vase of daisies that had just started to fade. She stepped into the kitchenette tucked in an alcove. Her coffee mug still sat on the cork coaster placed exactly two inches from the edge of the chipped sink.
She headed across the living room, noting the lamp she’d left on in the bedroom still beamed light through the doorway. The pair of mullioned French doors were locked, with no discernible notches or pry marks on the jamb. The glass panes covered by sheer white curtains presented a possible safety hazard. Still, she considered the doors a necessity since they afforded an alternate escape route. And the balcony faced the lake, providing a peaceful spot on her evenings off to sit and watch the dazzling yellow-and-red sunsets over the water.
She clenched her fingers as she stepped into the bedroom. The twin-size brass bed looked tidy and inviting with its pink chenille spread. The only thing lying on the spread was her plump throw pillow.
The closet door stood open. She habitually left it that way to eliminate a hiding spot. The few clothes she owned hung as she’d left them. Her suitcase sat on the closet floor, its lid open for quick packing.
Although it increased her sense of security, Regan knew her nightly check of doorjambs and locks was futile. Creath had once disabled the high-tech alarm on her apartment. She’d known he’d been inside solely because of the peppermint candies he left strewn across her bed.
The cop who had methodically stalked her, killed because of her, then set her up to take the fall for Steven’s murder had wanted her to know how effortlessly he could get to her.
Her gaze went to her reflection in the wavy-surfaced mirror hanging over the vanity painted a garish yellow. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she still got a jolt. The dark-haired woman she saw wasn’t her, couldn’t possibly be Susan Kincaid, who had spent six years saving lives and wearing her auburn hair in a short cap of curls. Now, her hair was midnight black and board straight, and belonged to a bartender named Regan Ford. But the nightmares that still woke her up in an icy, terrified sweat were Susan’s.
She swallowed back a sudden rush of tears. She was so tired—physically drained, emotionally exhausted, sick of feeling out of control.
Because she had learned the uselessness of tears, she scrubbed a hand over her eyes, grabbed her laptop off the rocking chair angled in one corner, then returned to the living room. Nudging the newspaper aside, she plugged the computer into the phone jack. That done, she toed off her shoes, then settled onto the couch. While the computer booted up, she rested her head against the wall. Was it sick to consider celebrating, since Creath hadn’t found her after an entire year?
Not yet, anyway.
Listening to the modem connect to the Internet, her thoughts centered on Dan Langley, the private investigator who was her one link to the life she’d left behind. Not just for safety’s sake, but her own peace of mind, she’d had to ensure Creath hadn’t followed her when she disappeared. No matter how sly and patient the monster inside him, he couldn’t personally track her if he stayed on the job.
Langley had no idea where she was or what names she used. All he had was her e-mail address to which he had sent messages for the past year to let her know Creath was still in New Orleans.
Regan accessed her e-mail account, saw she had no message from Langley. That meant the P.I. still had Creath in his sights.
Even as relief rolled over her, a sharp rap on the French doors brought her chin up. Through the sheer curtains she saw a man’s shadowy
