The characters, entities, and
events in this story are entirely fictitious, or used fictitiously. No
character or event is intended to represent any real person or event, past or
present.

Acknowledgements

I must first and foremost thank my
mother and my brother.

I still remember their reactions
the first time I confessed my passion for writing. My mom looked as if a couple
things made more sense, and she said, “Oo-oh.” My brother looked more than a
little impressed, and he said, “So
that’s
what you’ve been doing in
there?”

They have embraced writing as a
critical part of me with no questions asked. And that confirmed for me I was on
the right path. I know the time and attention I give to this craft has
frustrated, confounded, and occasionally disappointed them, but they have
never
wavered in their support or encouragement. I am truly blessed and eternally
grateful.

I must also thank my grandmother.
Her excitement and enthusiasm have touched me more deeply that she’ll ever
know. I would not be to this point in this journey if it weren’t for her. She has
supported my dream and encouraged me to pursue it. She’ll never know what that
means to me. I can’t thank her enough.

I must also thank my friends. Mandi
was the first person to read anything I’d ever written. Without her
encouragement and enthusiasm, it’s unlikely anyone else would have ever read
anything. Nancy has read most everything I’ve written, and I have relied on her
more significantly than she knows. Sabrina has been a wellspring of
encouragement, optimism, and strength. She has held me up and motivated me when
I’ve needed it most. Erin O. has provided endless support. Her excitement has renewed
my conviction more than once.

All of these women have given me
honest feedback and acted as brainstorming sounding boards when I’ve gotten
stuck or needed inspiration. Their input has been invaluable, and has helped
shape the book into what it is today. They cannot know the extent of my
gratitude.

Erin S. was practically a stranger
when she read this story, and that made everything real somehow. She has since
become a friend, and her encouragement has reminded me why I write stories in
the first place. That means more than she could ever know. I cannot thank her
enough.

Andi also became a friend as a result
of this book. I asked her to keep an eye out for typos as she read it. She
embraced that request, and it became a passion for this project that has truly
touched me. I appreciate that passion more than she knows.

I hope to make them all proud.

I was late. I’d agreed to meet Stacy Karnes at six. It was ten
minutes past, and I was another ten away. Traffic was light; maybe I could cut
that time in half. I hoped she would still be there when I arrived. Some people
wouldn’t be.

I hit
end
as the call dropped to voicemail. I’d already left a
message. Stacy wasn’t answering her phone.

Stacy had called me that morning
and asked to see the apartment. She had pressed me for a same-day appointment.
Something in her voice had caused me to agree, even though it required me to
work late. Already crammed full, my schedule hadn’t afforded me the time I’d
needed when a new client had walked into my office that evening. Now I was
late.

I turned into the parking lot off
Elizabeth Street. The building, a three-story affair built with contemporary
lines four years before, had originally been designed for senior living. At the
time, it had been called Harriett Valley Estates, named for Harriett Van
Patten, a local socialite who was of both the right age and financial status to
bankroll such a project. She’d even lived in the building herself until her
death a year ago.

But Elizabeth Street, not far from the
Colorado State University campus in Fort Collins, Colorado, is hopping with
dozens of fast food places, twice as many bars, and a hundred other businesses
all drawing great numbers of college-aged customers. And when catering to college
students, it isn’t profitable to shut your doors at six o’clock. The seniors
had found constant disruption and occupancy fell.

After Mrs. Van Patten died, no one
fought very hard to hang on to the Estates idea. White Real Estate and Property
Management had purchased it, renamed it, and begun leasing it to college
students. I became the primary leasing agent and property manager for the
location, now called Elizabeth Tower Apartments. With only three stories, it
isn’t much of a tower, but no one thinks anything of this since it isn’t in a
valley, either.

The lot was nearly full. I parked
in one of the many handicap places White Real Estate had yet to repaint and
jumped out. My foot hit the sidewalk as an ear-piercing scream rang out.

I felt my heart leap in my chest
then settle into a run, hammering against my sternum. My hair was standing up
and an involuntary shiver slithered down my spine. I’d never heard such a
scream.

I continued for the door, looking around
the lot. I couldn’t tell where the scream had come from. I saw no one. But I
noticed I was walking faster all the same.

Perhaps it had been a prank. The
proximity to campus and so many bars couldn’t be ignored, as Harriett Valley
Estates property managers had discovered. Drunken college kids were notorious
for playing pranks. But I couldn’t overlook the uneasy feeling that lingered.
And it told me this was something else.

I yanked open the lobby door, built
extra wide to accommodate wheelchairs, and strode in. I barely cleared the
threshold when I stopped dead. In front of the elevators to my right, a figure
dressed in black was kneeling over a young woman sprawled on the floor.

“Uh-oh,” I heard myself breathe.

The figure had lifted his or her
head at the sound of the door. For one of the longest moments of my life, the
figure stared at me, cold, dark eyes burning through the slits of the black ski
mask. I stared back. I tried to think, tried to keep breathing. But mostly I
just tried not to blink.

Then the moment was broken and time
moved again. The figure jumped up, attention fully on me now. Dressed in
head-to-toe black, it was difficult to discern any significant details apart
from one. The six-inch knife in the figure’s right hand, stained with dark red
blood, was quite recognizable.

The figure ran toward me and I dropped
into a defensive stance, falling back on years of training. The figure closed
the distance between us and swung the knife at my chest. I stepped aside, used
my left arm in an outward block, and thrust the heel of my right hand forward.
Air rushed out of the assailant’s lungs in a
whoosh.

At the same time, an elevator bell
dinged and the stairwell door crashed open. The lobby was suddenly full of
cheerful, carefree chattering. And people.

The figure struggled to get upright
and staggered for the door. Three people stepped off an elevator to my left
while two more emerged from the stairwell. The attacker stumbled out the door.

I hurried toward the victim,
glancing at my inadvertent rescuers. One of them, a tall blonde I’d signed to a
lease two months ago, was holding a cell phone. I pointed to her.

“Call 911.”

I dropped to my knees beside the
victim and took in the dark red stain spreading across her gray CSU sweatshirt.
Several more people arrived in the lobby, many of them gathering around us, staring,
talking, pointing.

“Anyone have a towel or anything?”
I asked the group at large.

Mostly people just stared back,
wide-eyed and confused. A few others shook their heads.

A guy pushed to the front of the
crowd as he balled up a shirt. He dropped to his knees opposite me wearing
jeans and nothing else.

“Great,” I said, reaching for it. I
noticed my hands were visibly shaking. “Hold it here and press.” I pulled the
shirt down to her abdomen and he applied pressure. For all the good it would
do. The blood was practically pouring out of her.

“Where’s that ambulance?” I
demanded, trying to find the blonde woman in the crowd around me.

“It—it’s on the way!” someone
croaked urgently. A male. I didn’t know who or where he was.

I turned back to the girl and
placed two fingers against the side of her neck. I felt her pulse beat under my
fingertips. It was beating fast. Pumping the blood out of her body that much
faster.

She was pretty, dressed in jeans
and a sweatshirt, about my age, maybe younger, with shoulder-length blonde
hair.

“Anyone know her?” asked the man
holding the shirt, looking around.

There were negative murmurs and
head-shakes all around.

I thought I knew who she was.

But who would do such a thing to
her? And why? Had this been a random attack or was she specifically targeted? I
didn’t know which would be better—for her or for me.

My brain jumped ahead and I
realized once the police and EMS became involved it would be difficult for me
to get any information about the girl. Anything I wanted to know, I needed to
learn in the next two minutes.

Driven by something I didn’t want
to name and a need to confirm my suspicion, I looked around for her purse or
wallet. There was nothing on the ground near her.

The crowd suddenly split and a kid
shot out. He dropped to the floor beside me, his attention on the girl.

“I’m an EMT!” he shouted. “I know
CPR!”

The girl didn’t need CPR, but I
didn’t point this out. Instead, I rose and stepped away. I had something else
to do.

Squeezing out of the group, I found
myself standing in front of the elevators on the west side of the building.
This was presumably where the girl had been standing when she’d been attacked.
But I saw no purse or wallet unaccounted for on the floor or nearby chairs. Perhaps
she hadn’t brought one.

What woman doesn’t carry a
purse?
I asked myself as I moved toward the south side of the lobby. Maybe
it was in her car. I hadn’t brought mine into the building either. Then I
spotted it.

A large desk had been constructed
in the southwest corner of the lobby. At the time of the seniors, a building
employee had been stationed there to assist and direct residents and visitors.
TV monitors under the counter had displayed security camera feeds from the
dozens of cameras installed around the building. Harriett Van Patten hadn’t
necessarily minded the noise of the surrounding college students, but she
hadn’t trusted them, either. She’d insisted on a state-of-the art security
system and someone to man it.

Most of the system’s functions were
no longer utilized and the desk had been unmanned since we’d bought the
building. Now it just held pamphlets, brochures, and the occasional coupon. And
a bright yellow handbag that seemed to be without an owner.

Skirting the crowd, I reached the
counter. Inside the bag I found a wallet. My gut clenched uncomfortably as I
read the name: Stacy Karnes. Thinking quickly, I pulled my phone from my pocket
and snapped a photo of the ID. A cursory look through the other items in the
wallet showed credit cards with the same name, a CSU student ID, and a Social
Security Card. I photographed it all.

I returned the wallet and hunted
around a bit more, finding little of interest. Conspicuously absent was her
cell phone. I’d tried calling her on the drive, but she hadn’t answered. Maybe
she’d forgotten it at home. But I wanted to confirm,
needed
to confirm.
What if she’d had it with her, had answered my call? If she’d known I was
running late, would she have waited in her car? Would that have kept her safe
from whoever attacked her?

I pushed back through the crowd and
squatted beside her. The “EMT” rattled off useless but important-sounding information
about her condition. I mostly tuned him out. A quick feel revealed the phone in
her back pocket. She’d had it on her the whole time. Why hadn’t she answered?

I swiped it and retreated back to
the counter. In a true stroke of luck, the phone was unlocked. I heard sirens
in the distance and managed a couple photos before I stuffed her phone into her
purse and mine into my jacket.

Then the party really got started. Through
the lobby doors I saw a fire truck arrive, followed closely by a police car,
then an ambulance a minute behind it. Everyone had their lights flashing, which
danced over the walls. In two minutes, the number of people in the lobby
doubled. Probably every person in the building had gathered to watch the action
firsthand. Uniformed personnel occupied the remainder of the space.

Three big, buff men dressed in
yellow bunker gear, boots, and navy t-shirts with Poudre Fire Authority logos
carried large bags of equipment in from the fire truck and gathered on the
floor around Stacy. They were soon joined by a man and a woman from the
ambulance. Meanwhile, one of the police officers, who looked like he worked out
with the firemen, seemed to be in charge. He issued directions to the others,
directions which consisted largely of clearing the lobby, containing the crowd,
and separating witness from bystander.

The EMT-kid refused to be cut out
of the action as the firefighters settled around Stacy.

“I’m in the EMT class,” he said to
them. “I’m almost done with my clinicals. I can help.”

The firemen shared a glance and
fought to conceal smiles. One of them settled an oxygen mask over Stacy’s face
while another cut open her right sleeve and secured a blood pressure cuff
around her arm.

“Is that right?” the third asked as
he cut Stacy’s sweatshirt in half from hem to collar. Three ugly wounds gaped in
her belly, all of which still bled freely. “You wanna help?” he asked as he
pressed thick dressings to Stacy’s abdomen. “Why don’t you hold c-spine?”

“Nothing in the assessment indicates
any possible c-spine damage,” the kid said, though he jumped up anyway. He
repositioned himself and dropped back to the floor, holding Stacy’s head
between his hands, keeping it in-line and still.

“C-spine damage can occur by the
most unexpected injuries,” the first fireman said, as if passing on a priceless
morsel of information.

The kid bobbed his head up and down
eagerly.

I was ushered outside with everyone
else. Stacy was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled away. A minute later, the
ambulance rolled out of the parking lot. The fire engine left a short time
later.

Last to arrive was a van with
crime scene unit
painted on the side. An
attractive but nerdy-looking man got out and carted two huge kits inside, where
he then set to work. He took photos and set up numbered, yellow markers.

While the others pushed to the
front, trying to see what was going on, I stayed back. I didn’t really want to
see any more. I’d seen enough—more than enough. And as manager of the building,
I figured I’d see plenty more before it was all said and done.

I sat on the curb with my arms
around my knees. The crowd ebbed and flowed in front of me. I wanted to leave,
but the police weren’t letting people go yet. Not to mention I couldn’t get my
truck around their vehicles clogging up the lot.

My phone chimed softly. I pulled it
out and sighed.
7 p.m.: lincoln center! don’t
forget the tickets!

I’d forgotten to cancel the
reminder when I’d given away the tickets. They had been a gift from a client,
and I’d planned to spend the evening with Patrick. I quite enjoy a symphony
every now and then.

Patrick and I had dated for six
months. Last month, he’d gone to Hawaii for a family event. When he got back
he’d quit his job, packed his stuff, and told me he was moving. Something to do
with the ocean. He was gone a week later.

Probably we broke up, even if he
never said as much. This move-to-Hawaii thing seemed pretty permanent.

I sighed again and put the phone
back in my pocket. Given my dating history, the Hawaii thing was pretty mild.
And I hoped the couple going in our place enjoyed the show. It was supposed to
be a good one.

_______________

It didn’t take long for the police to determine who had seen
anything and who hadn’t. There had only been six people in the lobby who saw
the masked figure, five of them arriving just as the figure ran out. I was the
sixth. At the direction of the officer in charge, the other two officers sent
people away when it was established they hadn’t seen anything. They were
permitted to return to their apartments, guided through the lobby between
yellow cones. They were also permitted to leave. They were not permitted to stand
around the parking lot within fifty feet of the building. Most people trekked
back upstairs.

Other books

His Majesty's Starship by Ben Jeapes

Becoming a Lady by Marie Higgins

Hawk (Vlad) by Steven Brust

Say Never by Janis Thomas

Doctor Who: Terror of the Vervoids by Pip Baker, Jane Baker

Officer Wolf (Sizzling Shifter BBW Romance) (With Bonus Book) by Sierra Burton

Northland Stories by Jack London

Cherringham--Last Train to London by Neil Richards

The Long Shadow by Celia Fremlin

Last Call by Brannon, M.S.