by LENA DIAZ,
“What’s her name?”
Chris didn’t turn at the sound of Dillon’s voice. His friend braced his hands on the railing beside him.
“I have no idea,” Chris answered. “She’s been here two days and she hasn’t even acknowledged that I exist.”
Dillon whistled low. “That’s a first for you. Must be losing your touch.”
He slanted his friend a look. “Yeah, well. At least I’m not puking my guts up every time someone says fried gizzards.”
Dillon’s eyes widened and his face went pale. A second later he clapped his hand over his mouth and ran inside the house.
Judging from the way Ashley was suddenly glaring at Chris, she’d obviously noticed Dillon’s rapid retreat. She put her hands on her hips. “What did you do?”
“I might have mentioned ‘fried gizzards.’”
She threw her hands in the air and shook her head in exasperation. Then she ran inside after her husband.
Chris winced at the accusatory looks some of the others gave him. He shouldn’t have done that. He knew that Dillon’s sympathy morning sickness could be triggered by certain foods, or even the mention of them. But teasing Dillon was just too easy—and way too fun—to resist.
He supposed he’d have to apologize later.
But right now there was something else bothering him, a puzzle he was trying to work through. He turned back toward his mysterious new neighbor’s house, trying to fit the pieces together in his mind. There’d been something about her that was bothering him, the way she’d twisted her hands together as she’d stared down the road, the look in her eyes when she’d met his gaze.
And then it clicked.
He knew exactly what he’d seen.
Fear.
Chapter Three
Judging by the empty beer bottles and bags of trash sitting on his deck, Chris reckoned the annual summer-opening bash for his SWAT unit had been a success. Everyone had seemed to have a good time, even Dillon, once he’d gotten over being mad. They’d probably still be partying if the mosquitoes and gnats hadn’t invaded after the sun went down.
He probably should have invited everyone to go indoors. But he’d been too preoccupied to even think of that earlier. He’d spent most of the cookout worrying about a woman he’d never met, who’d made it crystal clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.
After another glance at the house next door, he cursed and forced himself to look away. He grabbed two bags of trash in one hand and a bag of recyclables in the other. Then he headed down the deck steps and around the side yard toward the garage. He slowed as he neared the front. Behind the dark blue BMW next door was a silver Ford Taurus that hadn’t been there earlier.
He shook his head. It was none of his business who the woman next door invited over. Judging by the plates on the Taurus, it was from out of town. Maybe some of her friends were helping her unpack and set up the place. Again, none of his concern.
Rounding to the front of his house, he keyed a code into the electronic keypad to open the garage door. After stowing the trash and recyclables in the appropriate bins, he closed the door again and took the front porch steps two at a time. If he hurried, he just might catch the start of a baseball game on TV.
A few minutes later, he was sitting in his favorite recliner with a beer and a bowl of popcorn on the side table. He was looking forward to a relaxing few hours vegging out before going to bed early, even though it was Saturday.
Come dawn, he had a date with a tractor and a Bush Hog and over an acre of brush to clear for Cooper, a neighbor laid up in the hospital. After that, he had his own chores to see to, including repairing some fencing to keep cows from wandering into his yard again from the farm behind his house. Sunday definitely wasn’t going to be a day of rest for him. And he’d still have to catch the Sunday evening service at First Baptist or his mom would hear about it and start praying for his soul.
A piercing shriek sounded from outside, then abruptly cut off. Chris jumped up from his chair, grabbed his pistol from the coffee table. Standing stock-still, he listened for the sound again. Had a screech owl flown over the house? Maybe one of the baseball fans on TV had made the noise. Maybe. But he didn’t think so. The volume on the television hadn’t been turned up very loud. He pressed the mute button on the remote. Still nothing. Everything was silent. So what had he heard?
As if pulled by an unseen force, his gaze went to the window on the east side of the great room. The front of his home was about ten feet closer to the road than his neighbor’s. He had a clear view of her porch, dimly lit by a single yellow bulb now that the sun had gone down. Everything looked as it had earlier when he’d dealt with the trash. Two cars were still parked in her driveway. There was no sign of any people anywhere. But he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut and the memory of the fear he’d seen in her eyes.
Cursing himself for a fool, he headed toward the screen door, gun in hand. His neighbor was probably going to think he was an idiot for checking on her. But he had to see for himself that she was okay. He shoved the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back. No sense in scaring her with his gun out. After jogging down the porch steps, he strode across the lawn to her house.
The sound of breaking glass made him pause before he reached the bottom step. An angry male voice sounded from inside. Chris whirled around, changing direction. He went to the side of the porch, where he wouldn’t be visible from the front door, then hauled himself up and over the railing. Crouching down, he edged to the first window, then peeked inside.
The layout of the house was basically a one-story version of his own. He’d been in it dozens of times helping out old man Hutchinson before his family moved him to an assisted-living facility. The front door opened into the great room. The kitchen was to the left, through an archway. Both homes had a hallway that ran across the back, with two bedrooms and a bath. The only true difference was the size and the fact that Chris’s home had a staircase hugging the wall on the right.
Boxes were stacked neatly across the left end of his neighbor’s great room. A couch and two chairs sat in a grouping on the right. Standing in the middle of the room was a tall, lean man, his face a mask of anger as he said something to the woman across from him. Pieces of a broken drinking glass scattered the floor. But what captured Chris’s attention the most was what the man was holding in his right hand—a butcher knife.
Chris ducked down, his hand going to the gun shoved into his waistband. No. He couldn’t bust in there pointing his gun. The other man was too close to the woman and might hurt her. What he needed was a distraction, some way to put more distance between the two.
He also needed backup, in case this all went horribly wrong. He didn’t want the woman left facing the man with the knife all by herself. He had to make sure she’d get the help she needed, no matter what.
After silencing his phone, he typed a quick text to dispatch, letting them know the situation. As expected, the immediate response was to stand down and wait for more units. Yeah, well, more units were a good thirty minutes away, best case. That was part of the price of living in the country. Like it or not, he had to go inside the house. If he waited, his neighbor could get hurt or killed by the time his fellow SWAT team members arrived.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, then hopped over the railing and dropped down to the grass. His hastily concocted plan wasn’t much of a plan. It basically involved making enough noise to alert the two inside that he was there, and then going all hillbilly on them. If they were typical city slickers, as the BMW and out-of-town plates on the Taurus suggested, they might take the bait and think he was a redneck without a clue. If his gamble paid off, he’d manage to insert himself between the two and wrestle the knife away—hopefully without getting himself or anyone else killed.
Yeah, not much of a plan, but, since he could
n’t think of another one, he went with it.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, then loudly clomped his booted foot onto the bottom porch step.
Chapter Four
A hollow sound echoed outside. Julie jerked around to see the sexy guy from next door stomping up the front porch steps.
“Who is that?” Alan snarled, closing the distance between them.
She swallowed, watching the knife in his hand. “My neighbor. I don’t know his name.”
“Get rid of him.”
He edged halfway behind her, his left hand—the one holding the knife—hidden from view. Its sharp tip pressed lightly between her shoulder blades, just piercing her skin. She gasped and arched away, but the threat was still there. Her only chance was to try to appease him. If she didn’t, he’d kill her, and try to kill a stranger whose only crime was that he lived next door.
A knock sounded. The tall, broad-shouldered man who’d given her so many unreturned smiles and friendly waves peered through the screen door, grinning when he saw her standing in the middle of the great room.
“Hello, there,” he drawled. “I’m Chris Downing, from the house next door. Hope you don’t mind me coming over. I figured it was high time I introduced myself.”
“Um, actually, I don’t—”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his white teeth gleaming in a smile that would have been charming if she wasn’t so scared.
She shot a pleading look over her shoulder, then glanced back at her neighbor. “Mr. Downing, this really isn’t a good—”
“Chris,” he corrected, striding toward her. “No point in formalities between neighbors.”
The knife pressed against her spine, a warning that she needed to do something. Fast.
“You sure are pretty, ma’am.” His grin widened. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” He took one of her hands in his. “And what lovely name did your mama gift you with?” He waited expectantly, his green eyes capturing hers, looking oddly serious in spite of his silly grin.
She could almost taste Alan’s simmering anger, his impatience.
“I’m...ah...Julie. Julie Webb. I’m sorry but you really need to—”
“Can’t remember the last time I met a Julie. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His head bobbed up and down while he vigorously shook her hand, pulling her off balance. She was forced to step toward him to keep from falling over.
Alan made a menacing sound in his throat and plopped his right hand on her shoulder, anchoring her and keeping her from moving farther away from him. But her neighbor misinterpreted the gesture. He let go of Julie’s hand and offered his hand to Alan, instead.
“Didn’t mean to ignore you back there,” he said. “Where are my manners? Are you my new neighbor, too, or just visiting?”
The pressure on her shoulder tightened painfully, making her wince. She tensed, fully expecting to feel the bite of the knife sliding between her ribs at any moment. Most people would have read the tension between her and Alan and realized they were intruding. But her neighbor seemed oblivious, his hand still in the air, waiting for Alan to take it.
She could have sworn Alan said “stupid redneck” beneath his breath before he released her shoulder and reached around her to shake the other man’s hand.
As soon as Chris’s much larger hand closed around Alan’s, he gave a mighty, sideways yank, ripping Alan away from Julie. Alan roared with rage and slashed at Chris with the knife. Chris twisted sideways, the blade narrowly missing his stomach. He grabbed Alan’s left wrist, both men twisting and grunting with their hands joined crosswise in front of them.
“Get back,” Chris yelled at Julie, twisting sideways again.
She jumped out of the way, pressing her hand against her throat. The two men grappled like a couple of grizzly bears. Alan was shorter, but both men rippled with muscles, their biceps bulging as they strained against each other. Chris’s extra height seemed to be a handicap, though. He was bent over at an impossible angle. And his hold on Alan’s knife hand appeared to be slipping.
“Julie, run!”
Chris yanked Alan again. Alan countered by ducking down, trying to pull Chris off balance.
Julie couldn’t seem to make her feet move. She was frozen, her throat so tight no sound would come out.
“I’m a cop,” Chris bit out as he and Alan jerked and shoved at each other. “Drop the knife and we can work this out. No one needs to get hurt.”
“Work it out?” Alan spit between clenched teeth. “You’re the intruder. I can kill you and no one will even question me.”
Chris risked a quick glance at Julie. “Go. Get out of here!”
She stepped back, ready to do what he’d said. But then she stopped. The room seemed to shimmer in front of her, and she was back in her bedroom five months ago. All she could see was blood, its coppery scent filling the air. It was everywhere. The floors were slippery with it. Her hands, sticky.
No. Don’t think about the past. Stay in the present.
She blinked and brought the room back into focus.
“Please.” She stepped forward. “Please.” Another step. She stared at Alan, willing him to look at her. “Don’t do this.”
Something in her voice must have captured Alan’s attention. His head swiveled toward her. Bloodlust shone in his eyes. Julie knew the exact moment when he took the bait.
He gave Chris a mighty shove backward, catching him off guard. Chris stumbled, his hold on Alan broken. Julie tried to scramble back, but Alan was already lunging at her with the knife. She brought her arms up and turned her head, bracing herself.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Alan dropped to the floor, inches away from her, unmoving. She stared at him in shock, not quite sure what had happened. Then blood began running in rivulets across the worn, uneven floor, reaching out from beneath his body like accusing fingers, pointing at her. She stumbled backward, a sob catching in her throat.
A piercing scream echoed through the room. And suddenly she was clasped tightly against Chris’s chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her. He turned, blocking her view of the body lying on the floor. The screaming stopped, and she was mortified to realize that she was the one who’d been screaming.
“It’s okay.” One of his hands gently rubbed her back as the other cradled her against him. “He can’t hurt you now.”
He can’t hurt me now. He can’t hurt me now. She drew in a shaky breath.
Sirens wailed in the distance. How could there be sirens? She hadn’t called anyone, never had a chance to call when Alan had burst into the house. But her neighbor had come inside. Chris? And he’d...shot... Alan? Yes. Those had been gunshots she’d heard. She shivered again.
“The police are on their way,” he continued, speaking in a low, soothing tone. “I called them when I saw him through the window holding the knife.”
The police. He’d seen Alan threatening her. Wait, wasn’t he the police?
“I don’t... I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What happened? Who are you?”
He gently pushed her back, his hands holding her upper arms. “I’m Christopher Downing, a detective and SWAT officer from the Destiny Police Department. I called for backup before I came in here.” He scanned her from head to toe, as if searching for injuries. “Are you okay? Did he cut you?”
She blinked, her jumbled thoughts starting to come together again. “N-no. I mean, yes, he did. My back. But it’s not—”
He carefully turned her around.
His fingers touched her cuts through her shirt, making them sting. She sucked in a breath.
“Sorry.” He turned her to face him again. “There isn’t much blood. You probably won’t need stitches. Did he hurt you, in any other way?”
She frowned, trying to understand what
he meant. Then she got it. He was asking whether she’d been sexually assaulted. Heat crept up her neck.
“No, he didn’t...ah...do...anything else.” She pulled away, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.
The sirens had stopped. Red-and-blue lights flashed through the front windows. She was vaguely aware of a door opening, footsteps echoing on the hardwood. Chris guided her to the couch and she sat down, her gaze automatically going to the body on the floor. Deep voices spoke in quiet tones. Another voice, a woman’s, said something in reply.
Blood. There was so much blood. How could one person bleed that much?
She wrapped her arms around her middle.
The couch dipped beside her. A policewoman. She was dressed in black body armor. Bright white letters across the front of her vest read SWAT.
“Hello, Ms. Webb.” The woman’s voice was kind, gentle. “I’m Officer Donna Waters.” She waved her hands at her uniform, the gun strapped at her waist. “Don’t let this gear bother you. We came prepared for a possible hostage situation.” She patted Julie’s hand. “An ambulance is on the way to take you to the hospital to get checked out. But you’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”
The woman’s words seeped slowly into her brain as if through a thick fog. “Hospital? No. No, no, no. I’m not hurt. I don’t want to go to a hospital.”
“Ms. Webb?”
The now-familiar masculine voice had her turning her head. Chris Downing, the man who’d risked his own life for her, knelt on the floor, his expression full of compassion and concern.
“We’ll take your statement after you’ve seen a doctor. Is there anyone I can call—”
“Is he dead?”
Her question seemed to startle him, but he quickly smoothed out his expression. “I’m afraid so, yes. Do you want me to—”
She grabbed his hands in hers and stared into his eyes. Could she trust him? Would he tell her the truth?
He frowned. “Ms. Webb—”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive that he’s dead?”
