over the book an acquaintance at church had brought her and she rolled her eyes.
The Prodigal Son Returns wasn’t Ella’s choice reading material. She figured there was a hint somewhere in the gift—a quiet reminder that Ella had been gone too long when her mom had needed her most. Shoving the guilt aside, she moved into the kitchen.
She plunked her keys down on the gray-blue Corian countertop and opened the small cabinet next to the fridge. It was packed with a hodgepodge of cooking spices, along with a stockpile of her mom’s medications. Ella grabbed a bottle of aspirin, her gaze catching on the sleep meds she’d quit cold turkey as soon as she’d been released from the hospital. She’d been taking the pills regularly for years, and she was convinced their effectiveness was one of the reasons she hadn’t woken to the intruder the night she’d been shot. She pressed the cabinet shut, frustrated. She wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Again. But she’d rather be sleep-deprived than dead. She opened the fridge and peered inside.
She was down to the last bottle of iced tea. She’d have to hit the store tomorrow. Her hand closed around the bottle just as a swish of movement whispered behind her.
Ella gasped as an arm snaked around her middle, dragging her back from the fridge, her feet falling out from under her. She screamed, the iced tea crashing to the floor, her hands prying at the strong arm subduing her.
A sharp sting lanced her upper arm and this time her scream was soundless as she desperately tried to twist away. She registered everything in slow motion, it seemed. A syringe in her periphery, held by a black-gloved hand. Isaac whining at her feet, his tiny claws clicking on the tiled floor as he followed the scene. Futilely, she tugged at the arm dragging her across the kitchen. But her limbs felt loose, her strength ebbing.
Her heart was beating erratically, her hands tingling and numbing, dropping away involuntarily from the arm that was holding her. She tried again to scream, but nothing happened. The house was spinning. Or was she? Nausea roiled in her gut. Panic swirled in her mind. She needed to escape.
But first, she needed to sleep.
Roman slowed as he turned into his old neighborhood. Eastport was an eclectic waterfront community with low crime. Cars lined the curbs of narrow streets where kids often played outside until after dark, though likely not tonight with this brutal cold.
Just minutes after Ella had run off, she’d texted him a vague apology, promising to call in the morning.
He didn’t know what to think about Ella’s story, but he knew one thing: she needed help. It was too late for her to rescind. Roman was going to help her whether she wanted him to or not. And he didn’t plan to wait until she called in the morning.
After quickly locking up the building, he’d headed straight across the city, stopping only to fill his gas tank. He hoped he was right to assume Ella was staying at her mom’s. He’d grown up only two blocks from the Camdens, but hadn’t visited the area since his parents had moved a few years back.
Still, he easily recognized the home and parked at the curb. Stepping out into the night, he walked up the cracked driveway toward the house.
Gray-white puffs of air seeped out from underneath the garage door, a car idling inside.
Was Ella planning to head out somewhere? He stood still in the driveway for a moment, his breath swirling in the biting winter air as he waited to see whether the garage door would slide open or the car would turn off. When neither happened, he walked up the porch steps to the front door.
He knocked, noting the peeling paint and tattered silk-floral welcome sign. Looked like Julia Camden could use a little help with the old place. Maybe Roman could swing by sometime and offer a hand, fix up a few things to welcome Ella’s mom home after she recovered. If she recovered. From what he’d heard, the prognosis wasn’t good.
Roman rang the bell and knocked again, stepping back to scan the house. The shades were drawn in all the windows and, aside from the dim porch light, all was dark. A whisper of unease crept up his neck. He pounded on the door, loudly this time.
“Ella?” he called. “It’s Roman.”
Still nothing. He jiggled the knob. Locked.
Someone was in the garage with the car idling. And less than an hour ago, Ella had been sitting in his office telling him everyone thought she’d tried to commit suicide...
He needed to get into the house. He ran to the garage, grabbed the latch and tried to pull the door up. Locked. He banged on it, the old metal rattling. The car kept idling, the house still and silent.
Roman raced around the side of the house and let himself into the backyard through the gate. Finding the side door to the garage, he tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and pried out a credit card, his hands numb from cold and moving too slowly. Pressing his shoulder against the old wood door, he worked the credit card into the groove while jiggling the knob. The lock mechanism slid free, but a dead bolt held the door in place.
The door was solid and heavy, and would take time to kick in. He’d try the back door to the house first. He darted around the corner and tried the same method there. This time the trick worked. The knob turned, the dead bolt not secured. Roman rushed into the house, flipping on lights as he went.
“Ella?” he called, moving quickly through the kitchen. His shoe crunched something on the floor, but he didn’t see anything. He ran down the hall toward the garage, throwing the door open and flipping on the light.
He saw her immediately, slumped low in the front seat of a navy BMW.
No!
He ran to the driver’s side, yanking the door latch—knowing it would be locked. “Ella!” he yelled, banging on the window. She was unresponsive, reclined in the driver’s seat with the car still running.
They think I did it.
Did what?
Shot myself.
Roman rushed over to the toolbox and rifled around for a hammer. Grabbing it, he ran to the back-passenger door and cracked the window in one strike. Reaching through broken glass, he unlocked the car.
How long had she been in there? Even after locking up Shield and stopping for gas, he couldn’t have lost more than fifteen minutes. He chanted a prayer that he wasn’t too late. That, instead, he’d arrived just in time. But when he pulled the door open and reached in for Ella, she was lifeless, her eyes closed, her skin pale.
Just like he’d found his sister in her dorm room more than six years ago, murdered. But, no. Brooklyn had been cold to the touch, her skin bluish. Ella was still warm, though she didn’t appear to be breathing. And lying in her open palm was a syringe.
Ella, a drug user? Roman couldn’t rectify the thought in his mind, but if she’d overdosed on something, she didn’t have much time. He reached over her and shut off the car, pocketing the keys before pulling Ella easily into his arms and rushing her into the house and away from the carbon monoxide.
In the living room, he set Ella on the couch and yanked out his
