13

Alison waved as Stephen backed the family minivan down the drive on their way to the youth meeting. On board were Justin and Claire with the rest of the Prescott family. After an afternoon of mindless Food Channel television, even Claire had been ready to escape.

She went into the garage and lowered the door. Remembering she needed to stake her roses, she grabbed a few wire hangers she kept for that purpose from the workbench and some eco-friendly green twine. After church and lunch, she’d changed into comfortable denim capris and an old yellow T-shirt. Mike, working a drug-deal-gone-bad case he’d been investigating all week, disappeared from church right after the music and was a no-show for lunch. She patted her pocket to make sure her cell phone was there in case the children needed her while she was in the backyard.

Leaving the side door locked, she walked inside the house and through the family room to exit out the French doors into the backyard. She picked her way in her yellow and white striped flip-flops around a few low-lying spots still muddy from the rainstorm the night before.

It took only a moment to prop and tie the plants. She relished the feel of the loamy soil in her hands. The waning sunshine felt good on her face. She decided to stay outdoors a while and enjoy this small sliver of the spring season before the mosquitoes arrived en masse come summer.

Heading over to the huge oak tree in the corner of the yard, she sat down on the black wrought-iron bench. Late afternoon tended to be her favorite part of the day, when, after a day well spent, man and beast prepared to rest once more from their labors.

Only the occasional birdcall and the droning of bees enjoying her verbena broke the stillness. She kicked off her flip-flops to run her toes through the silken feel of the grass. This time of year, she loved the green caress of the grass between her toes, never wearing shoes if she could help it. The large fence and evergreen hedges screened her from the neighbors. She leaned her head against the back of the bench and closed her eyes to let her other senses soak in the garden. When she opened them again, she realized it was much darker than when she had closed them. Had she dozed off?

Jumping up, she stuffed her feet into her flip-flops. In the fading light of twilight, she could barely make out the time on her watch. She’d been out here over an hour. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to check for any missed calls she might have slept through as she walked through the French doors.

With her phone in hand, she entered the darkened living room. The first thing she noticed was the blinking light from the wireless phone on the telephone stand in the kitchen. She hoped it hadn’t been the children needing her. The caller ID box said “blocked call.” Afraid it might be the insane caller from last night, she turned on the table lamp and hit play.

It was surreal to hear Frank’s voice on the recorded message say, “This is the Monaghans. We’re unable to come to the phone at this time. At the beep, you know the drill. Leave your name and number and we’ll call you back. Bye.”

She frowned. Another matter she should’ve taken care of a long time ago. Time for another recorded voice. She’d ask Justin.

There was the beep, then a silence, and the caller disconnected. Probably a wrong number. She’d decided to fix a pot of tea and a sandwich when she heard a small thud overhead.

Were the children home already? Getting spooked, turning on lamps as she went, she checked the front door. It was locked and bolted.

She shook herself trying to get the kinks out of her neck. Her overactive imagination was no doubt at work again. Houses creaked all the time.

There was the sound of a door shutting upstairs.

“Claire?” Her voice croaked like a frog. “Is that you or Justin?”

Silence.

Alison glanced again at her watch. Only 6:30. The kids shouldn’t be home for another hour.

But someone was prowling around her house.

The shock like an electric current running through her body, she took the stairs two at a time and stopped at the top only to catch her breath. Had Frank’s killer returned? Was he or she searching for something? The phone they’d turned over to Mike? Something that now belonged to her children?

Her hand shaking, she dialed 911 and whispered her emergency to the dispatcher who promised the police would be on their way. The dispatcher also advised her to vacate the premises until help arrived.

But was this her one chance to make sure Frank’s killer didn’t get away with murder and succeed in ruining their lives? What if the intruder left before the police arrived? She was sick to death with being victimized.

She stuffed the phone into her pocket, keeping the line open with the dispatcher just in case. But she was done with being a doormat. She stalked to Claire’s room and shoved open the door. Searching the closet, she also peered underneath the bed. Tiptoeing into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom Claire and Justin shared, she flung back the shower curtain like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Nothing.

Creeping into Justin’s room, she grabbed one of the drivers out of Frank’s golf bag. Finding no trace of an intruder, she exited into the home office and discovered papers strewn across the carpet. The drawers of the desk and cabinet rifled. Her home invaded, her children in danger, her husband dead.

Blind, irrational fury overcame her good sense. Shrieking, she raced into the master bedroom with the driver held high over her head like some Viking warrior. She ran headlong into a tall masculine figure—dressed completely in black, outlined by the fading light from the Palladian window—pawing through the nightstand.

It would’ve been tough to say who was the most surprised, the intruder or Alison.

The prowler made a grab for the club as she swung it inches from his head. Too late, she attempted to wrest it back. Fearing the intruder would beat her to death with the titanium steel club, she hung on for dear life. A tug-of-war ensued until the burglar’s superior force wrenched it free of her grasp.

“Get out of my house!” She lunged for the black ski mask hiding the burglar’s face.

The prowler reared, but her fingernails slipped underneath the edge of the mask near his collar, drawing blood. Reacting in pain, he shoved her away.

Caught off balance, she fell, the back of her head smacking the footboard. The prowler loomed over her, the golf club raised. Stars spiraled before her eyes. Her last thought before the darkness claimed her was a plea for God to protect her children.