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.”
She kicked him again. The bastard wasn’t going to take her down without a fight. All the frustration, all the rage she’d held in for so long went directly into the only parts she could still move. She banged back with her head, kicked him again and tried to reach him with her nails.
“Shit, would you stop?” She could feel the muscles in his chest, the strength of his thighs. He was big, and in her stupid sleep-shirt, barefoot, she couldn’t hurt him. She also couldn’t breathe.
It was the latter that made her still. Time slowed as she grew lightheaded. All she could think was Please, make it fast. I can’t stand pain. Don’t hurt me.
Then darkness. Then nothing.
CHRISTIE WOKE. It was her bed, her room, and it was night. As the muddle in her head cleared, she felt her fear surge back full force. It hadn’t been a dream. The bastard was here, in her house. She reached over to her bedstand, but the drawer was open and empty. Instead, she grabbed the phone, but there was no dial tone. Tossing it to the bed, she got up, not willing to waste a second panicking. He was here. She had to get out.
Going directly to the window, she tried to open it and couldn’t. Of course, she’d locked it. To keep him out. Her shaking fingers couldn’t grasp the lock right, and when she finally did, there were the screws above the inside window to pull free. She’d never experienced terror like this, not with any of his phone calls or even the notes he’d left inside. If she didn’t get out, she knew she would die.
“What are you doing?”
She spun around at the voice. “Don’t come near me.”
He stood in the doorway, but all she could see was his silhouette. He was so large. His shoulders nearly filled the space, his head just a few inches from the top. There was something in his hand. A mug. Her coffee mug. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke softly. Barely above a whisper.
“You son of a bitch. I’ll scream. I’ll scream my head off.”
“You don’t have to do that. I promise. I’m here to help. But please, keep your voice down.”
She laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.
“Christie,” he said, moving a bit closer. “Your brother sent me.”
Her breath caught. “My brother’s dead.”
“I know. But he gave you a phone number.
