Somehow, Harper got through the rest of the evening. She’d been careful to keep her collar pulled up high to hide the bandage on her neck as she’d given Red his last round of medication. He drank his Gatorade and already seemed to feel better. After he finished his nighttime routine, she helped him into his room.
“I can put myself to bed, you know,” he said. “I’m not a two-year-old.”
She pulled the covers up to his neck. Normally, she’d lean down to kiss his forehead, but her back wouldn’t like that. And if she leaned too much, he’d have a great view of her neck, and she didn’t have the energy to deflect his questions right now. She patted his shoulder. “I want to tuck you in, you grouchy old coot.”
He gripped her hand. “If your back’s not better tomorrow, we’re going to the doctor.”
She didn’t bother to argue. Sick as he was, he’d probably forget by morning.
After Harper closed his bedroom door, she checked all the doors and windows. Everything was locked.
Those goons had sent their message, and she’d passed it along. She was safe now.
Why was she always trying to convince herself of that?
All the events of the previous few hours came back, and her hands trembled again. She made it to her bedroom and locked the door. She kept the light off and peeked through the blinds out the window. The sedan that was parked in front of the neighbors’ house so often was gone.
Had Derrick been watching her? It didn’t make sense, but then, what did? The only people she knew in Maryland, the only people she knew on the East Coast, were Derrick, Red, Roger, Red’s lawyer, the folks she’d met at the beach, and Red’s many healthcare providers. So who would watch her?
And why?
All this time, she’d thought she was being paranoid, told herself the car was owned by the people who lived in that house. But she’d never seen anyone get in or out. She’d never seen it pull up to the house, either. It was almost always there after dark. From here, she’d never been able to see if anybody was inside the car. There’d just been that one time when she’d been sure she saw the glow of a cell phone.
She sighed and let go of the blinds. After tonight, she wasn’t about to pass off her fear as paranoia. Tonight, her suspicion felt justified.
Red’s illness had exhausted her. The attack… She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything.
She went into her private bathroom and locked that door, too. She turned on the shower. While it warmed up, she undressed and looked at herself in the mirror. There’d be an ugly bruise on her cheek in the morning. She hoped makeup would cover it so Red wouldn’t notice. They’d have to stay close to home the next few days until it faded. She removed the bandage and studied the cut on her neck again. It was ugly, but it wasn’t deep. She could wear turtlenecks until it healed. Her stomach and ribs ached, but nobody could tell that from looking at her.
A bruise was forming on her wrist. Fortunately, it was cold enough for long sleeves.
She turned to look at her upper back but saw no shoe print there. As usual, the worst blows left no visible marks.
She had enough experience to know invisible scars could twinge for years.
She turned and met her gaze in the mirror. “You’re fine. You’ve lived through worse.”
She stepped into the shower, let the hot water wash away the memories, the feel of that man’s hand over her mouth, the other man’s breath on her neck.
Her tears fell, mingled with the water, left her feeling, if not clean, at least cleansed of the evil men she’d encountered that night. The attackers. And Derrick.
When the tears were spent, she breathed deeply of the humid air, let even her lungs be washed of memories so she could think straight.
If only she hadn’t gone out for Gatorade. If only the Gatorade bottles hadn’t already been opened. That a grocery store had let…
Wait. The case had been wrapped in plastic when she’d bought it. The bottles couldn’t have been opened before that unless the person who’d opened them had had some way to rewrap them in plastic. But what would have been the point? It was just a handful of bottles. Worth, what, ten dollars? Why go to all that trouble?
Nobody would have done that. Which meant that the bottles had been opened after she’d gotten them home.
But who? Not Red. The only other person who had access to the house was Derrick, and he hadn’t been there in months.
Or had he?
She’d kept the Gatorade in the garage. He wouldn’t have even had to come in the house. He could have tampered with them out there, and nobody would have known. He could slip in and out without anybody knowing.
No. What was she saying?
It was insane.
And yet… Derrick was desperate.
She didn’t want it to be true, but by the time the hot water faded to warm, by the time she turned off the spigot and dried off, she knew she needed to call the police. If those bottles had been tampered with, the police needed to know.
And she should report the attack as well. She’d been foolish not to.
Decision made, she dried off and was wrapping her wet hair in a towel when she heard a door slam.
Her heart pounded. It was probably just Red going to the bathroom. Based on the adrenaline rush to her veins, her heart wasn’t convinced.
She slipped on her bathrobe, grabbed her can of mace out of her purse—her keychain with the knife was downstairs by the door—and stepped into the hallway outside her room. Red’s bedroom was on the far end of the hall. His door was open. She peeked. He wasn’t in bed. She looked into his attached bath. Empty.
She swallowed a rise of panic.
Normally, she’d call for him, but the memories of the evening were too close, whispering like ghosts in her ear. She tried to tamp down her fear as she stepped silently down the back staircase.
She made it to the kitchen, but Red wasn’t there.
She transferred the pepper spray to her left hand, finger on the trigger, and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter.
Quietly, she crossed the tile and tiptoed into the living room.
Red was standing beside his recliner, one hand resting on the back of it, staring at the floor on the far side of the sofa. Sick as he was, how in the world had he gotten downstairs? Was he sleepwalking? What was he staring at?
She forced herself to speak calmly and said, “Red? Is everything okay?”
He looked at her, didn’t seem to recognize her, and looked back at the floor.
What was that in his eyes? A look she’d never seen before on his face.
Terror.
She stepped closer and followed his gaze.
Two men were lying on the floor. She focused on one. Saw jeans and black turtleneck and black wool coat. There was a dark stain on the jeans. A bloodstain. Her blood. The ski mask was gone.
The other man… Her breath hitched. It was Kitty’s husband, Keith Williams.
These were the men who’d attacked her.
She didn’t have to take a pulse to know they were dead.
One look at their foreheads confirmed that. Bullet holes.