“I have a daughter to protect,” Paula defended the blunt edge of her tongue. “To think I was willing to talk to you about visitation. You can forget it now, not after this!”

“Listen!” Colt cut in, gripping her arm. Paula froze. But the distant wail was sirens, not armed men returning.

Colt slipped a postcard inside an envelope and moved with a limping gait toward the back door.

Paula’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t you going to talk to the police?”

He kept moving.

“Go on, then. Run. It’s what you do best. I’ll wait for the police.” And she was left alone with her assailing fears.

What if the police don’t believe me? What if they think I broke in and made this mess? What if they arrest me? Dear God, what am I doing here?