by Mallory Kane
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “You have no clue what you’re talking about, do you?” she said.
He shook his head, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “No. I really don’t.”
“Or what you’re getting yourself into.”
“That either. But I want to know.” He sighed. “Look, can we just talk about it? Over dinner?”
Rachel regarded him. He was more handsome than one man had a right to be. He was smart, wealthy and basically a good guy, even if he did have commitment issues. She and her baby could have done a lot worse.
And she knew she would let him be a part of their baby’s life. She wouldn’t deny him the joys and the heartaches she knew they were both in for, raising a child. But right now, she was only eight—now nine—weeks pregnant. She didn’t have to let him off the hook quite yet.
Besides, she had plans for tonight.
“I don’t think so, Ash. Not tonight.”
He seemed taken aback, as if he hadn’t even considered that she’d refuse. “Oh. But you’re coming ho—you’re coming back to the house, right?”
She shook her head. “No. Neil told me my apartment has been cleared. I’m going home.” She slid her phone into her purse and stood.
“But whoever broke into your house is still out there. You might not be safe.”
She shrugged. “I’m not concerned. I do have a gun. And from now on, I’m going to keep it with me. If anything happens, I’ll be armed.”
Ash’s jaw dropped. “No, Rachel. You can’t do that.”
“Why not? If I’d had my gun with me when that man broke into my apartment, he’d be in jail and I wouldn’t have a scar on my head.” Her hand drifted up toward the cut, which was still sore.
His face darkened. “No. That’s not the way it works. It’s dangerous for a—for you to keep a loaded gun in your apartment.”
“I’m not going to shoot myself,” she countered.
“Statistics show that people who have guns in their homes are more likely to be shot. It’s not as easy as you might think to actually pull the trigger, knowing you could kill another person.”
“I know. Someone hesitates and the intruder takes the gun away from them and shoots them with it. I’ve already heard all this from my dad. And my mom. Mom’s like you—she thinks I’ll just end up having my gun taken away from me. Dad, on the other hand, taught me how not to let that happen. Trust me. I’m very well trained.”
“What are you going to do? Sit there behind your door with your gun in your hand, waiting for someone to break in? I can’t stand by and let you do that.”
She smiled. “You can’t stop me. It’s a free country and I have a carry permit. If you don’t believe I can handle a gun, ask Uncle Charlie. He was at the range a lot of times while Dad was teaching me everything he knew. He knows how good I am.”
“Fine.” Ash held up his hands. “Whatever you want to do. When you decide you’re ready to talk about what role I get to play in our baby’s life, you give me a call.”
“Fine,” she responded.
He turned on his heel and pushed open the doors. “And try not to shoot yourself,” he snapped, and stalked away.
BACK AT HIS HOUSE, Ash paced and grumbled to himself. He’d been stunned that Rachel had turned down his invitation to dinner. She’d surprised him, first by saying she had other plans, then by declaring that she was going to go armed from now on.
He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone that stubborn. It had taken a lot for him to go to her and apologize. Not that he didn’t regret being harsh with her. He did. It just wasn’t that easy for him to admit when he’d made a mistake.
It didn’t help that he found himself in a situation he’d never been in before. When it came to women, he’d always been the one in charge. The one who decided when to heat up a relationship and when to cool it down.
But from the very beginning, Rachel had been different. They’d spent weekends at his home, which broke one of his cardinal rules. He never spent the night with a woman, not at her place and not at his.
Nor had he ever taken a woman away for a weekend, but before he realized what he’d been doing, he’d asked Rachel to go to New Orleans with him for an idyllic few days.
And he sure as hell had never slipped up and gotten a woman pregnant.
From the beginning, Rachel had perplexed him. He’d come back from that weekend so terrified by how much he loved being with her that he’d broken up with her two weeks later. But he was too late. Rachel was pregnant and he was a father.
WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK rang at seven-thirty that evening, Rachel jumped. She hadn’t realized she’d been asleep. But she must have been, because she remembered sitting behind a giant door, picking off soldier ants with her Glock as they crawled through.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the odd dream, she stood up. She got so tired these days. Rubbing her tummy, she whispered, “And it’s all your fault,” to the tiny baby growing inside her.
She’d hurried home from work and set the alarm for seven-thirty, not even dreaming that she’d actually fall asleep. She’d wanted to wait until after the dinner hour to go see Rick Campbell, because she didn’t want to take a chance of missing him. She had his address, but she had no idea if he had a job.
She wasn’t totally convinced that going to see him was a good idea, but she wanted, for Ash’s sake, to ask why he’d been sitting outside Ash’s house in the early morning hours. Once she knew, then she could tell Ash, because, as he’d just told her the other night, he had too much on his plate right now. He didn’t need something else to worry about.
By the time those thoughts had gone through her head, she’d put her shoes on and combed her hair and was ready to go. She hadn’t had dinner, but she grabbed some crackers and a bottle of water.
Just as she was about to head out the door, her phone rang. She thought for a second of letting the machine pick up, but then she sighed and answered it.
“Ms. Stevens?”
She sighed. Most of the time if the caller addressed her as Ms. Stevens rather than Dr. Stevens, it was a wily telemarketer that had sneaked past the no-call list. It for sure was not someone she knew. “Yes?” she said impatiently.
“This is—uh—Rick Campbell.”
Rachel’s heart jumped and her hand flew to her mouth. The next breath she took was a struggle, because her chest was suddenly tight. She swallowed and tried to get control of her breathing. “Yes?”
“I hate to bother you, but is there any way I could talk to you? Ask you some questions?”
She didn’t know what to say. Rick Campbell’s situation was different from anything she’d ever dealt with before. Her standard answer to reporters, suspects, even victims, was that she was unable to comment on an open case. But Campbell’s case was closed.
“What—what about?” she rasped, because she couldn’t think of a reason to deny him. And she really did want to know what he was calling about.
“It’s about the—the DNA and my case and everything. I gotta tell you I’m worried.”
She bit her lower lip, wondering what she should do. Was she still obligated to refuse to talk to him? Did she even want to ask that question of herself? After all, she’d been on her way out the door to see him when he’d called.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mr. Campbell.”
“I’ll meet you in a public place. I’ll come to your office. Whatever I need to do,” Campbell said, sounding desperate.
“Mr. Campbell, I have to ask you a question. Do you drive a red Ford Focus?”
He didn’t speak for a beat. “My mom’s letting me use hers.”
“Have you been watching Detective Kendall?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Rachel was afraid Campbell would hang up without answering, but after a few seconds she heard him sigh.
“I—I don’t want to scare you or anything, Ms. Stevens. You saved my life. I was—I was following you. I�
�ve been working at a bar. Didn’t get off ’til it closed at 2:00 a.m.”
“You’ve got a job?” Rachel asked. He’d only been out of prison for a week or so.
“Uh, yeah. The D.A. put in a word for me.”
“So why would you take the chance that somebody seeing an idling car in front of their home at two or later in the morning might call the police?”
“I just wanted to—I felt close to you, you know? But you were with him and I know he hates me. I was afraid he’d send me back to jail.”
“Detective Kendall? He’s not going to do that. You’ve been cleared. You’re a free man now.”
Rachel heard a snort. “Yeah, you’d think so. Sometimes I think I was better off in jail.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You might be surprised,” he said. “Okay, now that you know I was following you, are you afraid to meet me?”
She was a little apprehensive, but Campbell sounded more desperate and fearful than vengeful. Still, a public place was probably a good idea. “Do you have time tomorrow afternoon? What time do you go to work?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure. I’m not working today or tomorrow. Today’s my day off and tomorrow I’ve got an interview for a permanent job.”
“There’s a coffee shop on Market Street near the mall. It’s called The Whole Bean Thing. Do you know it?”
Campbell laughed shortly. “Nope, but I can find it.”
Rachel grimaced. Of course he didn’t know the shop. He’d been in prison for almost half his life. “I’ll be wearing—”
“I know what you look like, Ms. Stevens.”
“Right. The press conference. Okay, then. I’ll see you at five o’clock?” She could leave work a few minutes early to meet him.
“Sure. That works. Thanks.”
Rachel hung up. That was weird. And fortuitous. Rick Campbell had said he was worried about the DNA and his case. Was he afraid that being cleared of the crime after twenty years was too good to be true?
Had he really been out in front of Ash’s house to watch her, not him? And was his reason really so innocent?
She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples. She was getting a headache from not eating, and the stars were beginning to spark at the edge of her vision.
She quit trying to figure out why Campbell wanted to see her and instead, went to her refrigerator and opened the door. Her choices for dinner were ham that had been there since the day of her attack, cheese that had been there for at least a month and eggs that she was sure would float.
Sighing, she closed the refrigerator door, picked up the phone and pressed a preset number. “I’d like to order a medium pizza with everything but anchovies, please,” she said, looking at her watch. She’d eat, then go to bed. She needed her rest, because tomorrow was going to be a very interesting day.
While she waited for the pizza, she took out her Glock and cleaned it. It wouldn’t hurt for her to have it with her when she met Campbell tomorrow.
THE NEXT DAY, RACHEL SAT in the coffee shop holding her purse on her lap. It had become uncomfortably heavy, but she wasn’t about to set it on the floor. Not with the Glock positioned within easy reach inside it. Although she’d talked big to Ash about having a carry permit and everything her father had taught her about using and caring for her weapon, this was the first time she’d ever gone out in public packing. Like she’d told Ash, she’d always carried her weapon in the trunk of her car.
She took a sip of her now cold decaf latte and looked for the twentieth time at the clock over the barista’s head. It was almost six and Rick Campbell hadn’t shown up.
For the first half hour, Rachel had given him the benefit of the doubt. He was stuck in traffic. He’d gotten a late start. His job interview was a half hour away.
But now she had to assume that he wasn’t coming. Why had he set her up to meet him if he wasn’t going to show? Fear curdled the latte in her stomach. Had he wanted to get her out of the way so he could get to Ash? She shook her head. That didn’t make sense, because he’d called her home phone number, so he knew she was back in her apartment. And anyway, why would he bother? Did he really think she was that much of a threat?
Maybe he’d lured her away from her apartment because he wanted to search it again. But if so, what was he looking for? More information about his exoneration?
Her brain cataloged more scenarios, but none of them made sense. She sighed, irritated. She’d have to revert back to her original plan.
She left the coffee shop and entered Campbell’s address into her GPS system. When she got to Campbell’s house, she didn’t see a red Ford Focus anywhere, on this street or down a side street. The front yard had a bare spot where a car had sat.
She looked around. Most of the shotgun houses had shades or curtains covering their windows. The street was deserted, except for a group of teenaged boys who looked bored and itching for something to do—preferably something exciting and maybe illegal. As she watched, one of them made a gesture and they took off down a side street.
Clutching her purse closely, Rachel got out of her car and locked it. As she walked down the cracked sidewalk to Rick Campbell’s front door, she caught a whiff of onions on the breeze. From somewhere, a woman yelled for her children to get back here right now. Supper’s on.
Rachel walked up the two steps to the door and knocked, but the door swung open. She hadn’t noticed that it was unlatched, because the house behind the door was dark.
“Hello?” she announced timidly. Then, “Hello?” a little louder.
Nothing. The house felt empty, but she didn’t want to go inside without knowing for sure. “Rick?” she called, loud enough that she was sure anyone in the house could hear it. “Rick Campbell?”
She waited for a minute, counting off the seconds, then spoke again. When the house remained silent, she glanced up and down the street and at the neighbors’ houses, making sure there was still no one outside, then she pulled her Glock from her purse, hoisted her now much lighter bag over her left shoulder and held the gun in her right hand, supported by her left.
“I’m coming in,” she stated, then shouldered the door open. The house was as dark as it had seemed from outside. She noticed a faint odd smell—metallic and slightly sweet. She reached out and felt along the wall for the light switch. When her fingers touched it, she flipped it on.
The room was nearly empty. A threadbare couch sat on the scratched hardwood floor. A cardboard box served as a coffee table. Rachel led with her weapon, hugging the outside wall as she crept toward the kitchen. The living room and what little she could see of the hall were empty.
She angled around the door to the kitchen, weapon first. She stuck her head out and around, taking a snapshot of the room with her brain, then ducked back. Closing her eyes, she called up the scene. Sink piled high with dishes, trash can overflowing with Styrofoam boxes and fast-food cups. Newspapers scattered across a card table. But no sign of Campbell.
She crossed the kitchen to the hall. The sweetish, metallic smell was stronger there, and it turned her stomach. She took deep breaths, hoping to stave off nausea as she checked the front bedroom. Nothing in there but a mattress on the floor and a blanket that looked like it had been jerked off the mattress and tossed aside. The second bedroom was empty.
At the end of the hall was a door. Had to be the bathroom. She reluctantly shouldered the door open, dreading what she was about to see.
She stared in horror at the scene before her. The pink bathtub was streaked with red. It was blood. Diluted blood. There was a ring of it around the drain. Drops and dribbles stained the hexagonal floor tiles and led toward the door.
She turned around and looked down the hall. The droplets continued down the hall, smeared slightly where she’d walked, although the blood was mostly dried.
She should have seen the drops. She should have recognized the smell. God knew she’d encountered it often enough in her forensics training. She closed her eyes and saw
the faint stars that often preceded a fainting spell. She took deep breaths but of course they didn’t help, they just filled her head with more blood scent.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, waiting for the acrid saliva that presaged her throwing up. She wished she had menthol rub to dab under her nose, but she hadn’t expected to walk into a crime scene.
Crime scene. Adrenaline shot through her like a blast of cold air. She was standing in the middle of a crime scene.
A crime scene with no body.
She stood still, her finger on the trigger of the Glock. She knew what she was supposed to do. She should already have called 9–1–1, but there was no body to go with the blood, and she had no good reason to explain why she was there.
Maybe she should call Ash. He’d know the best thing to do. Rachel dug her phone out of her purse as a vision of what would soon happen whirled in her head. The room would be crawling with police officers, detectives and crime scene experts, and she’d be carted off to an interrogation room.
She shook her head, and then immediately regretted it when the stars she saw increased in number—by millions. She crouched down, hoping to ward off the fainting spell.
She hit the speed dial for Ash without really thinking about it. When he answered, she found herself at a loss for words for a split second.
“Rach? What is it? You okay?” he said when she didn’t speak.
“Yeah. I—uh—” She swallowed and shifted her weight as she sat back on her heels. “I’m at Rick Campbell’s house.”
“What? Are you all right?” he blurted. “Rach?”
“I’m fine, Ash, but—”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“Ash, please! Listen to me. Campbell’s not here but there’s blood all over the bathroom, and—” She stopped. She hadn’t looked closely at the living room floor. There were probably drops of blood there, too.
“Blood? Rach—get out! He could be there!”
