by Alana Terry
Chapter 5
A LOUD BANGING REVERBERATED through my apartment, and I shot upright in bed, my heart pounding heavily. Jordan scampered off the bed and took refuge beneath it.
I stared blankly at the nearest window until my mind registered the golden morning light filtering in through the dingy glass. I’d fallen asleep while sifting through old photos after my shower. As fruitless as I thought the effort would be, I had promised the detective I would take a look.
I looked down at my open laptop on the bed and popped the memory card out of it, tucking it securely back into its Ziploc bag. Since I was a freelance photographer, my filing system consisted of sandwich baggies labeled in permanent marker under my bed.
Someone knocked again. Now that I was awake, it didn’t sound like an elephant kicking my front door. I cast a longing glance toward the bathroom as I slid off the bed. Despite the fact that I was perfectly clean, I had the urge to take another shower to try to scrub away the old memories last night’s events had unearthed.
Maybe later.
I tugged on a sweatshirt over my tank top and slid my feet into a pair of fuzzy green slippers to protect them from the cold of the cement floor before walking into the kitchen.
I didn’t have a peephole in my door, so I dragged one of the metal chairs over in front of the sink and climbed on top of it to peer out the window. Whoever stood at my front door was too close to the building for me to see.
Irrationally, my palms began to sweat. I seriously doubted the second man from the park was on the other side of my door. He had no way to find me, and I had a feeling I’d been more of a convenience than a target.
“Who is it?” I called out nervously.
“Detective Marx.”
I dropped my head and groaned as I climbed down off the chair. I was not awake enough to carry on a conversation with him. In fact, I would probably fall asleep sitting up halfway through the conversation and start drooling.
I rubbed my tired eyes and shuffled to the door. I unbolted it and wrenched it inward a few inches. I kept one hand on it in case I felt compelled to slam it shut in his face for one reason or another, and tried to arrange my displeased grimace into something mildly welcoming.
“Detective.”
Detective Marx smiled at my exasperated tone. “Ms. Holly.” His attention slid from my face to the door, and he commented with mild interest, “Three dead bolts and a metal door.”
“I didn’t choose the door.”
“Just the dead bolts.”
I lifted my chin to meet his eyes. “Is there a point to this line of questioning, or can I go back to bed?” I glanced at the microwave. It was 7:55 a.m. Ordinarily, I would be out for my morning jog, but after the incident in the park last night, I was a little more jittery than usual. It would take me a few days to find my balance again.
“May I come in?”
My grip on the door tightened. I knew inviting a person into your home was common courtesy, but this was my place, and it was the only place I felt safe. The only person I had ever allowed in was Jace.
I assessed the man on my doorstep carefully as I tried to decide whether or not he was a threat. He hadn’t made me so nervous last night when there were plenty of other people around. But now that he was at my door, I couldn’t help but notice that he was fit for a man in his forties, and if he wasn’t six feet, he was just shy of it.
The gun on his hip didn’t exactly put me at ease, and then there was the fact that he was probably trained to restrain a person in his sleep.
No, he’s not intimidating at all, my mind offered up sarcastically.
His green eyes glinted with amusement, as if he knew I was sizing him up. I pushed the anxiety back into its box and stepped aside, widening the door for him. I was not going to be a chicken.
Detective Marx stepped through the doorway and stopped just inside the kitchen to take in my humble living arrangements. His gaze absorbed every detail, and I saw a question flicker behind his eyes.
My home was not what he’d expected. It wasn’t embellished with bright, colorful things and family photos. To him it must have seemed cold and sparse.
“I don’t do frilly things,” I stated simply.
“I see that.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love frilly things: colors, patterns, sparkles. But what was the point? Even if I could afford them, I couldn’t stuff them in a bag and take them with me.
Detective Marx noticed the chair I’d pushed up against the kitchen cupboards to see out the window, and asked, “May I?” I nodded and he sank down with a tired sigh.
“I don’t have any coffee to offer you,” I said. “But I have some fruit punch and chocolate milk.” I wasn’t used to having guests, but I was pretty sure offering refreshments was the socially acceptable response.
“Chocolate milk would be lovely, thank you,” he said. “Did you get much sleep last night?”
“Probably more than you.” If the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of stubble across his jaw were anything to go by. I deliberately left the front door open as I walked around the table to the refrigerator. “I’m guessing it was a long night?”
He smiled tiredly. “It certainly was. I haven’t actually slept yet.”
I felt a twinge of guilt for being the cause of his exhaustion. How long had he searched for my attacker last night? I set a glass of chocolate milk on the table in front of him.
He looked into it, and a wrinkle of interest creased his forehead. “There are . . . things floatin’ in my chocolate milk.”
I frowned at the note of distaste in his voice. “They’re called marshmallows.” I always had marshmallows in my chocolate milk. And my hot chocolate, and my cereal, and occasionally by themselves in a bowl. Did that count as an addiction?
Detective Marx’s lips quivered slightly as he suppressed a smile. “Thank you.” He set the glass aside on the counter without trying it. He glanced at the open door. “Are you sure you wanna leave the door open? It’s lettin’ the heat out.”
“It’s fine. The fresh air is nice.” And freezing. But I wasn’t about to shut the door and trap myself in here with him. I took a sip of my chocolate milk and chewed on a spongy marshmallow before asking, “How did you find me?” I made it a point not to leave a trail. And yet . . . there he sat.
“Well, you certainly didn’t make it easy, considerin’ you didn’t leave an address with the interviewin’ officer, and there’s no Holly Smith in the phone book that’s even remotely close to your description.” There was an unspoken question in his eyes.
I ignored it.
He pulled an evidence bag from inside his brown suit jacket. A small, gray flip phone rested in the bottom of the bag. “We recovered your phone. It’s been processed, so I thought you might like it back. I spoke to an effervescent young lady named Jace last night, and she told me where to find you.”
I gritted my teeth. I was going to have to have a conversation with her about sharing my personal information.
“She was a bit distressed at not havin’ heard from you. Is there any particular reason she might think you were abducted?”
I smirked behind my cup. I could be five minutes late and Jace would think I’d gotten lost. Considering I had missed dinner and then forgotten to assure her I was all right, it didn’t surprise me that she thought I’d been abducted. If I didn’t call or pop in by noon, she would think I was dead.
“She’s . . . protective.”
“I noticed. I was on the phone with her for an hour before she talked herself into exhaustion and fell asleep.”
“What did you tell her?” I worried.
“That you lost your phone and I wanted to return it to you.” He pulled my phone out of the bag and offered it to me. “I took the liberty of puttin’ my number in there for you.”
“How thoughtful,” I said dryly as I accepted the phone.
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “I do try.”
I flipped open my phone.
There he was: DET Marx. And then there were five unopened voice mails from Jace as well as nine hysterical text messages.
Oh boy.
“Thank you for finding it for me.” At least I wouldn’t have to buy a new phone. “I looked into those photos for you. There were no mysterious shadows or figures. Not even a suspicious-looking tree.”
I went to grab the box of memory cards from the bed and then set them on the table. I rifled through the box and plucked out a bag containing the memory card he’d asked about last night. “Helen Holcomb,” I said, showing him the label. “She’s the woman with the restraining order and the angry ex-boyfriend. I took a picture of them arguing, so the boyfriend’s picture is on there too. But I can’t imagine why he would’ve been there last night, because she wasn’t.”
A line of concern formed between Detective Marx’s eyebrows. “Not that I don’t appreciate the photo, but you have a tendency to take pictures of things you should be avoidin’, Ms. Holly. And it’s a bit unnervin’.”
I lifted my chin. I didn’t need a lecture from some detective I’d known for less than twenty-four hours about the dangers of taking pictures. “Are we done?”
“Not quite. I do have a few follow-up questions.” He retrieved the spiral notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
I sighed and melted into the chair on the opposite side of the table. I just wanted to go back to bed. I pulled my feet up onto the edge of the folding chair and tapped my fingers impatiently on my glass. “Do you ever actually run out of questions?”
“Typically, the answers run out first.” He flipped through his notebook, extracted a folded sheet of paper and pushed it across the table. “I need you to look at this picture for me.”
I unfolded the paper cautiously. My breath hitched for just an instant, and then I forced myself to breathe normally as I met the detective’s eyes. “That’s the second man from the park.”
“I thought as much. He and Jimmy were practically joined at the hip. His name is Cambel.” I slid the picture back to him, and he tucked it back into his notebook. “How tall would you say the shadowy figure by the tree was?”
I shrugged. “I’m a terrible judge of height unless someone is standing right next to me.”
“How tall would you say I am?”
“Maybe six feet?”
“I’m five-ten. Was the shadow taller or shorter than me?”
I puckered my lips in thought. “Taller.”
“Given your two-inch margin of error, is it safe to assume he was somewhere between six and six-four?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Where are you going with this?”
“Just tryin’ to determine if it might have been Cambel watchin’ you by that tree. It’s possible he targeted you before you ever made it to the edge of the park.”
“But he didn’t kill his friend.”
“Like I said, I’m considerin’ every angle.”
I sighed. “So now are we done?”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were eager for me to leave, Ms. Holly.” He regarded me with a small smile. “Just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
I pressed my lips together.
“I spoke with the officer first on scene a bit more after you left just to compare notes.”
And why does that sound ominous?
“The Good Samaritan who placed the 9-1-1 call described the victim of the assault as a petite, red-haired woman. No jacket, despite the weather, covered in grass stains with bloody fingers.”
Yeah, that sounded like me. I took a slow, cautious sip of my chocolate milk and waited for him to continue. I was sure there was more to this retelling of events than just my description.
“So, when the first officer on scene approached you, fully aware that you matched the description given, and asked you what happened, you responded with ‘I have nothin’ to say’.” He looked at me and I arched my eyebrows at him.
“There wasn’t actually a question in there,” I pointed out.
“Why were you so reluctant to give your statement?”
Ah, there it was. Tense shoulders were difficult to shrug, but I managed it. “Because there wasn’t really anything to report. I’m fine.” Well, except for some very colorful bruises.
“Fine,” he repeated evenly. “Ms. Holly, you’ve kept at least three feet of distance between you and me since we met last night, and I’m pretty sure I saw fear in your eyes when I asked to come inside. That doesn’t exactly coincide with fine.”
“That has nothing to do with—” I bit off the rest of that sentence before I could say more. My mouth had started speaking before my exhausted brain caught up and realized I shouldn’t say that. He arched an eyebrow at my tight-lipped expression, and I realized I’d already said too much. “I like my personal space.”
“Mmm hmm,” he grunted, and I didn’t think he could lace that sound with any more skepticism if he tried. “I think you’re scared of somethin’. Either more happened last night than you’re tellin’, and we need to take you to the hospital to be examined, or somethin’ else is goin’ on. I just haven’t figured out which.”
I squirmed uncomfortably under his probing gaze. Last night had left me off balance, and I knew I’d made a mistake by giving my statement to the police. I just hadn’t figured out how to fix it yet.
I forced a calm breath through my nose and asked, “Am I under investigation, Detective?”
“No.”
“Then I think we’re done here.” I unfolded myself from the chair, concentrating on keeping my movements slow and relaxed, and walked to the front door. I gripped the edge of it, silently inviting him to leave. “Thank you for bringing my phone back.”
He sighed and stood, returning the chair to the table. He tucked his notebook and pen back into his pocket before meeting me at the door. “Ms. Holly . . .” He glanced at the locks on my door and then back to me. “Who’s responsible for the dead bolts on your door?”
I stiffened.
He couldn’t possibly be that insightful. I tried to keep the fear from my voice as I said, “Have a nice day, Detective.”
Chapter 6
I BOUNCED MY LEG AS we sat at the cafe table outside the coffee shop. It was a bright autumn day, and there was a steady stream of people passing by. I watched their faces, half expecting to see the man from the park among them. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I saw his face in the crowd.
“Would you sit still?” Jace asked. “You’re twitchier than a crack addict in withdrawal.”
I realized I was also tapping my gloved fingers against my cup of tea in an anxious rhythm. I forced my nervous tics to still and took a deliberate sip of my tea. “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind today,” I admitted.
Jace’s shoulders hunched and she muttered, “Is this about the cop? I said I was sorry. I won’t give anyone else your address. I didn’t think you would mind since he was bringing your phone back, which you really should be more careful with, by the way. What if you lose it and there’s an emergency?”
Oh, if she only knew.
“And besides, that cop sounded totally trustworthy. That soothing Southern drawl. Is he single, do you know?”
“Ew. He’s like . . . forty-five.”
“Holly, I’m thirty. My face is starting to melt. Soon I’m gonna look like a bloodhound with saggy jowls and wrinkles deeper than the Grand Canyon.”
I laughed so hard that tea almost came out of my nose.
“Excuse me, miss,” a polite male voice called. I looked up to see a waiter hovering nearby. “The gentleman two tables away asked me to deliver this to you.”
He set a plump chocolate muffin in front of me. I stared at it in confusion and then looked across the sidewalk at the man who had sent it over.
It took me a moment to recognize him without his sweat stained T-shirt and mussed hair. It was the man who frequented the same jogging route as mine. He was dressed in jeans and a red button-up shirt.
He flashed me a charming smile.
Well, great. Now what was I supposed to do? As tasty and tempting as the muffin looked sitting in front of me, accepting it would give the man the wrong impression, and returning it would be rude.
I leaned across the table and whispered, “Is there some kind of etiquette for this? Because I’m not sure what to do.”
“Eat the tasty free muffin and thank the gorgeous man with your number,” Jace suggested. At my scowl, she said, “Oh, you meant something you would do. Chuck the muffin at his head and tell him to take a hike.”
My mouth fell open. “I am not that bad.”
Jace arched an eyebrow at me. “When was your last date?”
I pursed my lips to keep from saying something snippy. I pushed back my chair and stood up. “I’m taking it back.”
“Oh, come on. I was kidding. At least let me eat it,” Jace whined as I walked past her toward the man’s table.
Butterflies swarmed my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a normal conversation with a man that didn’t involve the question “Paper or plastic?” or an interrogation.
All right, mouth, don’t say something stupid.
“Hi,” I said with a small, tense smile.
He stood to greet me with another blinding smile. What was he, a toothpaste model? “Hi. I hope the muffin isn’t too forward. I recognized you from when we cross paths jogging and I’ve always wanted to introduce myself. I’ve tried a few times, but you jog pretty quick.”
Ha. Guy didn’t get the hint, I guess. Apparently, my efforts to avoid him hadn’t been obvious enough. “I appreciate the muffin, but I’m not really hungry.”
His smile didn’t even dim. “It was just an introduction, really. I’m Luke.”
I hesitated before giving him my name. “Holly.” He was handsome in a way, but I didn’t feel any more attracted to him than I did a bottle of nail polish.
“Why don’t you have a seat? Share a drink with me.”
“I’m in a relationship,” I blurted. With Jesus, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Oh.” He blanched. “I mean, of course you are. Is it serious?”
