All babies deserved to live and grow and be loved.
Tanya slid out of her car, purse in hand. Her weary steps echoed through the garage as she headed for the side door leading into her home. In the familiar stone silence of the house, she flicked on the hallway light and dragged herself over the faded carpet. Past kitchen on the right, front door and hall on the left, opening into the family room.
From that dim room, peripheral movement caught her eye. Something on the couch near the front window. She swiveled, saw a figure — and gasped. Her eyes locked on a familiar face.
The intruder rose from her couch. “Ms. Evans.” The voice was low, weighted with menace that need never yell. “I’ve been doing a little checking up on you.”
A hit man? What was this, some Edna San film noir?
Carla stared at the gun and David Thornby — or whatever his name was. Her mind split in two, one side pleading this was some sick joke, the other screaming it was all too real. Her throat ran dry, air backing up in her lungs. She licked her lips.
“Sorry I’m so slow, but — are you saying you’re here to
kill
me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Such nonchalance. “
Why
?”
“I never asked.”
Okay. Now was the time for him to put the gun away, tell her it was fake. Admit her favorite person to argue with, crusty old Wilbur Hucks down at Java Joint, had sent Thornby to pull the biggest stunt on her Wilbur had ever pulled . . .
The man before her did none of these things.
Carla’s brain couldn’t process. What exactly was the social protocol when a gun was pointed at you? As real as the weapon looked, hope still flew its flag —
It
is
a joke; he’s going to crack up
any minute
. “You’re telling me you staged all this to get me out here and kill me, and you don’t know why?”
He shrugged. “A half-million dollars silences the most curious of questions.”
“A
half-million dollars
?”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Apparently you’ve angered the wrong person quite thoroughly.”
“Would you cut the British phraseology already? We’re kind of past that.”
“Sorry. I rather enjoyed the part.”
Carla gripped her purse, thoughts whirling. “Did Edna San’s son and daughter send you? If I’m not selling the house fast enough, there are easier ways to fix the problem. I can give you names of plenty other realtors. Tell you what, take the whole Rolodex.”
“I doubt that’s the reason.”
What then? Some hangover from the murders six months ago? But that case had been solved. Memories of the craziness of that time, the unsettled days and frightening nights, flashed through Carla. Even with the confessed killer in jail, it had taken her three months to feel safe in her own home at night.
So
why
on earth had she fallen for this man’s spiel?
In her peripheral vision, Carla caught the fading glitter red of the setting sun upon Kanner Lake. A crimson eve, she thought. How dramatically apropos. Maybe this was an Edna San movie after all.
“Please. You’ve got the wrong person. There’s no reason for someone to want me dead. I don’t have any enemies.”
“Then you’d best rethink your friends.”
“But there’s . . . Look, let’s just call the whole thing off, like the song says. I’ll go my way, and you go yours. Cross my heart I won’t say a word to anybody.”
Remorse flicked across his face. “I hate this part. Really I do. Especially with someone as gorgeous as you. The two of us should be at a romantic dinner, with pale moonlight and a sonorous ocean as our backdrop.”
Sonorous?
Carla’s nerves prickled. The guy said he was here to kill her —and now he was
flirting
? And using poetic words to boot. All hope of jokes melted away. This man was crazy.
Carla surveyed her chances. She wore heels, but she could ditch them in a hurry. The pepper spray was in the right corner of her tote-style purse — had been ever since Vesta Johnson’s murder six months ago. It had an eleven-gram stream that would shoot up to ten feet and contained five one-second bursts. Plenty enough to stop the guy in his tracks while she knocked away the gun . . .
“Yeah, right, a romantic dinner. In your dreams, pal.”
The man shrugged. “Your loss, Miss Wit.” His eyes flattened to cold calculation. “Now. We’re going to take a little walk. Come around the table, and head toward the front door.”
Uh-uh. No way was she letting him get behind her. Carla imagined the bullet searing through her back into her heart. Besides, he might as well kill her right here. What was he going to do, shoot her on the beach and weight-sink her body into the water? Kanner Lake had been there, done that.
Her heart knocked against her chest. “Guess what, I’ve changed my mind. That ocean-side date sounds just spiffy.”
He sneered. “Thanks, but I’m happily married. Get moving.”
Carla moved, her muscles trembling with a panic she would not show. She’d lived through enough, hadn’t she, to be strong now? Endured pain in her teenage years — more than anyone should have to face. She’d learned a few things since then. Made her way in life alone. Gotten bolder, cockier. She needed to hold on to that cockiness now, squeeze every last drop out of it. Because she was not going down without one massive fight.
She skirted around the end of the table. Carla clutched her handbag at her waist as she headed out of the room. No need to look to know that he followed. She could
feel
the glacier at her back.
“Wait. Put your purse on the table.”
“No way, I paid a lot for this thing. It’s going down with the ship.”
“Put it
on the table
.”
That did it; the time was now or never.
Note to all hit men:
never separate a female from her designer purse.
Carla slid her left hand into the bag, curled her fingers around the pepper spray, and pushed off the safety top. “Okay, okay.” She turned toward the table, right hand holding up the purse, her left down by her side. “Satisfied?” She reached toward the table with the bag, watching his eyes as they followed her movement.
The second her purse met the table, Carla whipped up her left hand, feinted to one side, and jammed her index finger on the canister’s release. A stream hit David Thornby in the face.
“Ahh!” Both eyes screwed shut. His hand jerked up.
Bap, bap.
Two bullets whizzed by Carla’s head.
She screamed. Pumped the pepper spray twice more.
The man wheezed and staggered back. Dropped the gun. His hands flew to his face and clawed.
Some force outside Carla took over. She lunged for the weapon. Her foot kicked it, sending it sliding across the rug. She chased it and snatched it up. Turned to yank her purse from the table. The man coughed and cursed mere feet away, face scrunched and eyes cinched shut. One arm swung blindly, groping for her. Carla jumped out of his reach, threw both gun and pepper spray into her bag. Swiveled toward the hall.
She’d gone only two steps before her left high heel caught the edge of the Persian rug. Her ankle turned. Pain shot up her leg.
Carla stumbled and crashed to the floor. All breath knocked from her lungs.
No, no, move!
She scrabbled to her knees. The floor turned to lake waves beneath her. She kicked off both shoes, tried to push herself upright, ignoring the throb of her ankle.
Behind her, David Thornby growled like a wild animal. Strong fingers closed around her calf and pulled. She smashed to the ground a second time, her head hitting hardwood floor. She lay there, dazed.
The hand around her leg tightened, the man spewing curses.
How determined
was
this guy? She’d hit him with enough pepper spray to stop a horse.
His fingers bit into her skin. “I . . . will . . . kill you . . . slowly . . . for this.”
Carla’s world blurred.
Shock tore through Tanya’s body, and every limb went weak. Her purse slipped from her fingers, hit the carpet with a soft
thump
. Futile shouts for help stuck in her throat. “How did you get in here?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” The figure stood mostly in shadow, illumination from the hall light touching one nostril, one eye, distorting the face. The invader’s body, though not large, loomed huge in threat, as if in one move it could fly at her and devour. For a surreal moment Tanya flashed on every vampire movie she’d ever watched as a teenager.
One arm raised toward the couch. “Would you prefer to sit, Ms. Evans?”
Tanya could only stare.
A shrug. “As you like.”
Outside the window, dusk spread dark wings over the front yard, tainting the family room in shades of gray. The intruder drew closer to Tanya. “Since we last talked, I’ve learned a little more about that ‘discussion’ of yours.”
“I told you that wasn’t my idea!” Her words sounded breathless. “I was completely surprised. And I didn’t say
anything
. I pretended not to know.”
“You must not have pretended very well.”
Tanya swallowed. “I did the best I could. What was I supposed to say?”
“That the questions are more than ridiculous. That you are
absolutely convinced
the truth is what it’s always seemed.”
“But the proof shows otherwise!”
“Proof is all in perception, Ms. Evans.” The voice hardened. “It’s in what we choose to believe. You should have reinforced those beliefs. You could have put the fears to rest quietly, quickly. Instead I hear you hemmed and hawed, and ended up raising more questions than you answered.”
A large crow landed on a thin branch just beyond the window, swaying the limb and sending shivers through the leaves. Tanya trembled in rhythm.
“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll do better. Believe me, I just want to be left alone. I don’t like the questions any more than you do.”
“Believe
me
— there won’t be a next time.”
The crow emitted a raucous
caw
, as if nature itself reinforced the intruder’s dire meaning. Prickles danced down Tanya’s back. All the
years
she’d kept quiet. Suddenly they loomed so fruitless. How could she have believed the truth would remain hidden forever?
The intruder sneered at Tanya — and a thread within her snapped. Just enough to fray the edge of her years-worn complicity. Indignation stirred in her bones. “If you have the situation under control, why bother to come here and threaten me?”
“I don’t recall saying a single word of threat.”
“You broke into my house. I’d say that’s threat enough.”
“Let’s call it a gentle reminder. You wouldn’t
have
this house were it not for certain generosity.”
But I might have a life.
“Agreed, Ms. Evans?”
The snapped thread frayed a little more. Tanya’s fingers curled toward her palms. “Yes. Agreed.”
“Good.”
They regarded each other, Tanya fighting to hide her growing defensiveness. The stare that met her eyes was hard, laser-like. Under its heat, Tanya’s rebelliousness wavered, then melted away. She lowered her gaze.
Her visitor made a throaty sound of approval. Then pulled out a cell phone, hit one button. “Come pick me up.” The cell phone snapped shut.
The words, so casual. A sign to Tanya of power, of the planned staging of this moment, the fear it was intended to instill. Her indignation returned. “Leaving so soon?”
The intruder moved with the swiftness of an animal pursuing its prey. The gap between them closed, leaving them nose to nose. “Have you forgotten who I
am
? What I can do? With one word,
one word
, I can make you disappear. I’ve worked too hard, waited too many years to get where I am today. Tomorrow promises even better things. And
nothing
is going to take tomorrow away from me.”
The words dropped like molten lead, sizzling Tanya’s skin. In that instant she saw the full truth. This heartless person despised her knowledge. Saw her as a bomb that could explode any minute. As long as she lived she would be viewed as a fizzling fuse needing to be doused. The wrong word, one sideways glance might be all it took.
Could she live like that? On top of the constant remorse —could she survive, always waiting for the other shoe to drop?
And if she didn’t survive — the knowledge would die with her.
The crow cawed again. Tanya jumped.
Her intruder stepped back, smirking.
The sound of a car engine filtered from outside. Through the corner window Tanya spied a dark sedan with tinted glass pull into the circular drive out front.
Her visitor shot a final glare at Tanya, then strode to the front door and pulled it open. Turned back. “Remember.
One
word.”
The door closed firmly. Tanya stood unmoving as the hated figure slid into the sedan’s backseat, and the car drove off.
Only then did she begin to shake.
Carla blinked rapidly, the brown fuzz of hardwood floor swimming before her eyes. Her head pounded, her left ankle throbbed, and viselike fingers wrapped around her lower calf.
Where was she?
Grunts and coughs erupted behind her. Clarity flooded Carla’s brain. Her purse. The gun and canister. Had they fallen out?
Carla slapped both palms against the floor, pushed herself up. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision.
The man yanked at her leg. She kicked with the other and connected with something hard. His head? He groaned, and she kicked again.
She swept her half-focused gaze left and right, searching for her purse. There, near the door. She stretched out a hand, missing the bag by two feet. Terror and rage shot through her veins.
“Oh, no, you won’t!” Thornby’s words ground like mixing gravel.
Carla clenched her teeth and thrashed, inching across the floor toward her purse. The man’s fingers loosened but didn’t let go. She kicked with both legs, pummeling hard with her free limb until she felt the man’s fingers fall away. With a cry she shot forward and grabbed her purse, fingers scrambling for the gun or spray. She felt the small container, yanked it out, bent her body at the waist back toward the man, and hit the button. The stream hit his chin, drops bouncing into his eyes.