Sara Watson rushed out the door of her southwest Portland ad agency, expertly exchanging her high-heeled dress shoes for a pair of more comfortable slip-ons for the drive home. She had just enough time to run a couple of errands and pick up some groceries for this weekend’s get-together before going to the day-care provider to pick up her toddler, Chloe.
Her cousin Claire, and Claire’s ten-year-old daughter, Allysa, were finally coming down from Seattle for a long-awaited and much-anticipated visit. But company, no matter how welcome, cut deeply into Sara’s already-packed schedule.
She stuffed the heels into her shoulder bag and fished around in the deep pockets for her car keys. Finding them, she unlocked the doors of her Audi coupe before removing the remote from her purse.
The car chirped its familiar signal. Sara rounded the back of the car, throwing her large bag in the trunk before approaching the driver’s side. She stopped midstride when she noticed the broken driver side window. The glass had been shattered, leaving broken safety glass on the parking garage floor and the car’s interior.
“Oh, no.” Her shoulders drooped in exasperation. Her annoyance turned to concern as she realized the intruder might still be in the area. She dug around in her purse for the mace canister but couldn’t find it.
“Great. That’s just great.” She rolled her eyes when she remembered she had left it at home after her early morning jog. Fortunately, she appeared to be alone in the parking structure. She should probably call the police, but that would take time—time she didn’t have.
Instead, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed her husband’s office.
“Watson, Simons, and Keller, this is Jackie.” The receptionist gave her usual perky greeting.
“Hi, Jackie, this is Sara.”
“Oh, hi, Sara. How goes it?”
“Been better; my car was broken into at work.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Is Scott around?”
“He is, but he’s in a really important meeting with the finance group on the brewery remodel. I hate to interrupt him, but if you really need him . . .”
“Shoot.” Sara sighed. Her husband’s engineering firm was designing a multimillion-dollar renovation of an old brewery in downtown Portland into upscale condominiums. He’d be furious if she broke up the meeting for something like this. Something she really should be able to take care of herself. Sara looked around the parking lot again, then at her car.
“You want me to page him out of the meeting?” Jackie asked.
“No, don’t do that, Jacks. I’m OK, and it looks like whoever did it is long gone.” She peeked in through the window. “Except for the broken window, everything looks intact. They didn’t take the radio or CD player. Just have Scott call my cell when he gets out of the meeting.”
“Will do. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thanks. I’m OK, just a little flustered. These things always seem to happen when you’re up to your eyeballs in stuff to do. I still have some shopping to do, but I’ll be fine. Thanks for delivering the message.”
Sara snapped her phone shut and opened the passenger side door. She thought again about calling the police, but that would keep her here for another hour or two at best. And what good would reporting the vandalism do at this point? The odds of the police finding the culprit were less than the chances of winning the lottery.
After taking one more look around the parking lot, Sara leaned into the car and carefully brushed the glass chips off the passenger seat. Once the seat was clear, she climbed inside and checked the center console and the glove box to see if the thief had taken anything. The change they stashed for parking meters and such was still in the console, along with her expensive sunglasses and even an old cell phone that didn’t work anymore—though the thief wouldn’t know that. The remote for the garage was missing. Sara envisioned the thief gaining easy entry into their home. She sighed in relief when she realized it wasn’t missing after all. She’d given it to Scott to replace the batteries over a week ago.
Sara pulled the owner’s manual from the glove box. The plastic sleeve in which she kept her insurance card and car registration had been ripped off. Scott’s emergency cash envelope, which contained one hundred dollars, and the roadside hazard card were missing as well. “Wonderful.” The fear of identity theft crossed Sara’s mind. She’d recently heard about thieves breaking into cars and houses to steal names and Social Security numbers.
In lieu of running errands, Sara opted to go straight home so she could notify the banks and credit bureaus, as well as the insurance company. On her way out of the parking structure, she dialed her day-care provider to let Lindsay know she’d be picking up Chloe at three. That gave her an hour to take care of this unexpected and unwelcome diversion.
As she aimed her car toward home, her mind churned with items on her to-do list. “Why now?” she whined.With the weekend coming, she had meals to make and a house to clean. Heaving a resigned sigh, she muttered, “Sorry, Lord. I know I shouldn’t complain, but . . . Just help me get through this, OK?” She could be thankful for one thing: her car was drivable.
Sara turned down Salmonberry Road and into the Everwood Estates, where she and Scott had lived for only a year in their dream house. It had been built in the early 1900s, but they had completely remodeled it.After a few turns she reached Spruce Circle, a four-house cul-de-sac, and then headed down their wooded drive. Sara pulled into their circle driveway and stopped at the front door. She didn’t plan on staying long, just long enough to get phone numbers and make some calls. Once she’d done that, she’d pick up Chloe and run her errands. Chloe would love that—she’d inherited the shopping gene from Sara and her mother and her mother before that. The thought made her smile and made the task at hand seem less formidable.
Sara ran upstairs and into the office she and Scott shared, and she yanked open the oak file cabinet. “Where are you?” she muttered as she fingered each of the tabs. “Here we go.” She pulled a manila envelope out of a hanging folder and opened the file to make sure it held all her financial information.
Better cancel the Visa, MasterCard, American Express . . . what else? Sara tried to remember if there was, in fact, an emergency credit card with her roadside assistance membership. She decided to cancel all the cards to be on the safe side and have new plastic issued, leaving only her debit card valid to hold her over.
A master at multitasking, Sara picked up the cordless phone on the desk to dial the number for Visa while looking for the AAA file. No dial tone.
“Oh, Scott, not now, please.” Sara jogged downstairs and into the kitchen. She must have told Scott a hundred times to put the phone back on the charger. She stopped ranting when she noticed the green light, indicating the phone was still charged. Sara glanced at the kitchen base unit, then at the empty wall plug. Someone had unplugged it, and the cord was nowhere in sight.
The hair on the back of her neck rose, and goose bumps shivered through her. Her mind conjured up a million scenarios, and none of them sounded good. Had the person who’d broken into her car broken into her house as well? They wouldn’t have had to break in, she realized—she hadn’t taken time to lock the front door.
A snap broke the silence. Fear tore through her. Sara instinctively reached for the small canister of mace she’d set on the counter after her run. Her hand struck it as the intruder whipped the phone cord over her head and pulled it tight around her neck. She heard the canister of mace roll off the counter and onto the floor.
The ligature tightened, turning her scream into a pathetic mew. Sara clawed at the cord and tried to pull away from her attacker. As she did, she caught sight of the man in the black microwave door but couldn’t make out his features. He was big and strong, with a wide face and long, dark hair. She reached back and captured a handful of his hair. He pushed her to the unforgiving tile and drove a knee into her back.
Sara gasped for air, her open mouth frozen in desperation. She twisted, trying desperately to free herself and dig her fingers under the phone cord. Oh God, help. Please help me.
Sara glanced up to see the pictures of little Chloe and Scott on the refrigerator door. Chloe’s handprints on a homemade Mother’s Day card brought a cry of anguish. The thought of her baby growing up without her was as terrifying as death. She couldn’t die. She just couldn’t.
With her last bit of strength, Sara twisted to her left as she reached across her chest with her right hand to scratch her attacker’s face. The man grimaced in pain and swore. He grabbed for his face with one hand, releasing the cord.
Sara broke away, scrambled to her feet, and ran for the door. Her attacker growled like some kind of wild animal. If she could make it to the door and get outside, she’d be safe. Maybe she could outrun him. He grabbed for her arm, and she jerked it away; but the movement caused her to stumble on the stair in the entry. Before she could right herself, he tackled her, grinding her face into the tile.
Fear had turned to anger, and Sara twisted around to face a man intent on killing her. Her strength was no match for his, but Sara Watson had no intention of making it easy for him.