Harper’s ribs felt too tight around her lungs—she couldn’t get a breath. She stared at the windows across the room, her hand still clinging to the dead phone.
Someone pounded on the door again. Three heavy bangs. She felt each one in her chest.
“Come out, Harper. Come out and play.”
It was Peyton Anderson’s voice.
The voice on the phone had been telling the truth. He was watching her. And she was in trouble.
There was only one reason for Anderson to be here now.
She dialed 911 so quickly her fingers slipped on the phone. As it began to ring, she jumped to her feet, heading for the door.
“911 what’s your…” a voice began.
“This is Harper McClain. Peyton Anderson is outside my house right now. He’s got a gun. I need help.” The words came out fast but clear. “317 East Jones Street. Call Daltrey.”
She drew a quick breath before adding, “Send an ambulance.”
Before the operator could respond, she hung up. She didn’t want to get into a conversation with Anderson standing on her front porch.
Avoiding windows, she crossed the living room to the entrance hall and stared at the front door. The peephole was a sinister black eye, looking back at her.
No way was she putting her face up against that right now.
She turned herself sideways, pressing her back against the wall. If he fired through the door, she wanted him to miss.
“What do you want, Peyton?” She raised her voice, trying to sound authoritative but not shrill. Like a cop.
“I only want to talk,” he insisted. “Come outside. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. “I saw how you talked to that cabdriver last night. You can talk through the door.”
He laughed then, a gasping, angry sound.
“You’re such cowards,” he said. “All of you. You write lies in your newspaper, but you won’t say it to my face. You’ve got no soul.”
“What did I lie about, Peyton?” she asked. “Didn’t you kill Naomi? Didn’t you kill that man last night? I saw you do it, Peyton. I was there.”
“So what?” He was angry now, his voice rising. “He was going to lie, too. You all lie.”
There was something in his voice—an unevenness she recognized.
Is he drunk?
It wasn’t a good thought.
“I’ve called the police,” she told him. “They’re on their way.”
“I knew you would. They were going to find me eventually anyway. My dad told me to turn myself in.” He gave an angry laugh. “My own dad. He believes you, do you know that? I thought getting rid of that cabdriver would put an end to this. But then you messed it all up, you stupid little bitch.” He drew a breath. “Now I’ve come to thank you. Come out.”
There was a pause. Harper could hear sirens in the distance. Anderson must have heard it, too.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said, with sudden clarity. “Open the door, or I start shooting your neighbors.”
Harper stopped breathing.
He’d already shot one innocent person today. And if she’d learned anything from seven years on this job, it was that the first kill made all the other kills easier.
When she didn’t reply, he grew impatient.
“You like that old lady, don’t you? The one with the ugly little dog? Never shot a dog before. But there’s a first time for…”
“Stop.” Harper turned to face the door. “I’ll come out.”
Her eyes fell on the baseball bat leaning against the wall.
He couldn’t kill anyone else. She wouldn’t let him.
There was no time to plan. All she had was the element of surprise. And she was going to take it.
She picked up the bat and, moving fast—her hands surprisingly steady—she unlocked the door.
She turned her body sideways and burst out onto the porch holding the bat like a hitter at home plate.
She had time to clock Anderson’s pale sweaty face. To see his eyes widen, and the gun in his hand start to rise.
She swung.
She put all her strength into it—swinging the bat with her whole body. It connected with his shoulder with a sickening crunch. The gun flew from his hand.
Anderson screamed and grabbed his arm.
With grim determination, Harper swung the bat back, and hit him again as the first police cars pulled up on the street outside, sirens blaring. This time the bat connected with his chest.
Anderson collapsed to the ground.
He was sobbing, one hand held up as if it could stop the next blow.
Uniformed officers jumped out of the cars and ran toward her, guns drawn. She stood over Anderson’s huddled form with the bat raised, breathing heavily, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He wasn’t going to hurt her. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
Voices shouted at her: “Stand back!”
She could barely hear them through the roar of blood in her ears.
A crowd of officers rushed up the narrow steps, shoving her aside and surrounding Anderson, who lay groaning on the floor.
“We need an ambulance,” someone said.
“There’s a gun somewhere on the ground,” she heard herself tell them.
Someone took the bat from her.
More police cars were pulling up on the street below. Blue lights flashed in all directions, as her neighbors emerged from their houses to see what was going on.
Between the cars, Harper caught sight of a man. He stood back from the fray. She wouldn’t have noticed him were he not watching her so steadily.
He was tall and slim, with steel gray hair. His upright stance betrayed military training. His eyes had the sharp intensity of a police officer’s. He wasn’t a neighbor. She’d never seen him before.
Harper took a step forward, trying to get a better look. Their eyes met.
“Is it you?” she whispered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud.
An ambulance rolled down the street, blocking him from view.
When it passed, he was gone.