are always eager to share their ideas, culture and language.
Thank you, dear hubby, for all the time and effort you put into getting my books out there and for being proud of me.
Thank you, Lauryn and Will,
I love you so much.
ONE
Something was wrong. Goose bumps pimpled on Marianna Santino’s suddenly chilled flesh as she walked up her driveway. The door to her small home stood open. That in and of itself didn’t bother her. The open door combined with the facts that it was January and slightly below freezing didn’t bode well. And where was Twister, her large German shepherd, who normally bounded out to greet her?
Her internal fear alarm screeched. Adrenaline rushed.
Run. Get away.
She turned to run—and paused. But what about Suzanne?
Investigate or flee? What if Suzanne, her roommate, needed her? What if she was hurt?
What if whoever broke in was still in there?
Jamming her right hand into her coat pocket, she pulled out her Blackberry and punched in 911. When the screen lit, indicating the call was connected, she put the device to her ear to hear someone speaking. Unable to make out the words, she spoke softly into the phone. “Someone broke into my house.” She gave the address and clicked off to wait. No doubt the dispatcher was probably yelling at her about hanging up, but it wouldn’t do any good to stay on a phone with a person she couldn’t hear.
Marianna scanned the house again. Her hearing aids picked up nothing out of the ordinary, just the wind whipping all around her, causing a whooshing sound to rumble in her ears. Other than that, all was quiet. Silent. Like a tomb.
Was the person still in there? Did Suzanne need help? Again the questions swirled in her brain, worry agitating her. Please God, don’t let anything be wrong. Maybe the wind blew the door open.
But that didn’t explain Twister’s absence. And Suzanne, who always arrived home before Marianna, would have shut the door immediately.
Her eyes darted to the street. No police yet. Fear for her friend finally overrode her concern for her own safety. Slowly, she walked forward until she reached the front porch steps that led up to the door. The stain on the step stopped her.
Blood.
In the form of a shoe print. Leading out of the house.
She was beyond fear. Now she was terrified.
“Suzanne? Twister?”
Desperately, she strained for any sound that would penetrate the shroud of silence she lived with on a daily basis. With a shaking finger, she bumped up the volume on her hearing aid. Slowly, she stepped toward the door once more. The footprint led away from the house. That was good, right? Whoever had been there was now gone.
Or watching.
Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the quiet street. After school normally meant children on bicycles and neighbors walking dogs. But the frigid weather had everyone inside. The street was deserted. Suddenly, the windows seemed ominous, staring back at her like empty eyes.
Where were the police?
Shivering, she stepped closer, avoided the bloody print and slipped inside the door. Looked down. Another print. A blast of warm air from the vent above her blew a lock of raven-colored hair across her eyes. Pushing it aside, she swallowed hard and made a concerted effort to control her fear-induced ragged breathing.
She continued on.
The kitchen to her right. Peered in. Nothing but an empty mug on the counter.
The den to her left. Again, nothing seemed out of place.
That left the three bedrooms down the hall. And the trail of bloody footprints leading to the room at the end.
With nerves taut, the hairs on her neck standing straight up, she took another deep breath and stepped into the hall, doing her best to avoid smudging the prints, which grew darker with each step.
Was she destroying evidence the police might need?
Hesitating, she chewed her lip. Her instincts screamed at her to get out. To leave.
But Suzanne might be hurt. What if she needed immediate medical help?
Those thoughts kept her going, ignoring the raging fear flowing with every heartbeat.
“Suzanne?”
A noise, caught by her hearing aid, pulled her to the left as did the prints. Suzanne’s bedroom. The door was shut.
Reaching out, she almost touched the knob. Stopped. Every crime show she’d ever watched seemed to replay through her mind in a five-second span. She caught the edge of her shirt, gripped it with her thumb and pointer finger, and twisted the knob to open the door. No sense in marring any fingerprints that might be there.
No, you’re just possibly wiping them off.
But Suzanne was her priority.
Another muffled sound. What was that? Run!
Please, God!
The knot in her throat grew tighter as the door swung inward. A bloody smudge marred the hardwood floor. And another one just behind it. The room lay trashed, items broken and strewn about.
Oh, please, Jesus, let the police get here soon.
“Suzanne? Twister?”
Another sound. From the closet. Slowly, she walked toward it. Using her shirt again, she grasped the knob and turned it.
The door exploded open, pushing her backward to land on her rear. She let out a little scream, then groaned.
Twister. Licking her face, he expressed gratitude for his freedom.
“Get off. Down,” she ordered.
Immediately, he dropped to his haunches, ears perked, brown eyes gleaming. Cocking his head, he whined, seemed restless, his attention on something beyond her bed.
She whirled, rounded the bed and stopped.
“No!” she screamed and dropped to her knees.
Suzanne lay faceup, eyes fixated, unseeing, on the ceiling above her. Beneath her dark hair, a pool of blood soaked into the light brown carpet.
* * *
As Ethan O’Hara approached the house, the scream reverberated from within. The wide-open door and the brown bloody footprint on the front porch told him that the 911 hang up call signified real trouble. Definitely not a prank. Catelyn, his partner, pulled her gun and gave him the nod; he entered the house, his own weapon held ready in his right hand. They’d been passing by the neighborhood when the scanner went off. When Catelyn heard the address, she gasped,
