by Alana Terry
I would take ugly shoes over her tears and fear any day. “It was a . . . creative idea.”
“They’re really nice shoes.”
I nodded and said, “They’ll look really nice under my bed.”
She laughed and some of the sadness and worry evaporated from her features. “I also wanted to see if you could come to basketball tonight.”
“I don’t know, Jace.” I could probably convince Jacob to take me. Sam was a little bit more strict, but Marx would probably barricade the door with me inside if I so much as suggested going out in public. Then again, he couldn’t really stop me. “Gimme a second.”
I pushed myself to my feet and grabbed my box of shoes before opening the door. The moment I stepped inside, Marx said, “It’s not a good idea, Holly.”
I slid the box onto the counter and replied irritably, “And hiding is better?”
“If it keeps you safe, yes.”
“I can’t stay here until you catch him. I need to do something. Something that doesn’t revolve around stalkers and death and . . . creepy stuffed animals.”
He heaved an aggravated breath. “If you do this, I can’t protect you. I will try, but there are too many things that can go wrong.”
I stepped toward him. “It’s a basketball game full of people in wheelchairs. I’m pretty sure a six-foot-four lunatic will stand out.”
“You’re not goin’.”
“What are you gonna do to stop me? Handcuff me to the radiator?”
For a moment it looked as if he might actually consider it, and I took a wary step back. “Fine,” he gritted out. “But if you ride in the car with her, you’re puttin’ her at risk.”
“Then I’ll ride with you,” I replied with equal irritation.
Chapter 14
I SAT UNCOMFORTABLY in the passenger seat of Marx’s car, my body angled away from him as I gazed out the window. Red, yellow, and green lights streaked by in the darkness as we drove.
I couldn’t help but wonder if my stalker was out there, still watching somehow. I shook that thought away before it could ruin my evening.
“Are you warm enough?” Marx asked. He reached across the car, and I stiffened before realizing he was just reaching for the heater dial. This arrangement made my personal bubble impossible. He caught the subtle shift in my posture and returned both hands to the wheel.
I slouched in my seat, torn between guilt and relief that he’d withdrawn his hand. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“You have nothin’ to be sorry for, Holly. I asked you for the chance to earn your trust. It’s only been ten days. I don’t expect miracles.”
I was genuinely trying to trust him, but I wasn’t there yet. I knew he would go to great lengths to keep me safe from the man stalking me, but I didn’t trust him with my secrets, and I was pretty sure he would never hurt me. But people rarely showed you their true identity—just some socially acceptable version of it—and ten days wasn’t long enough to know what actually lay beneath the shiny surface.
I snuck a glance at Marx. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doin’ what?”
“Protecting me.”
A crease formed between his eyebrows, and he chanced a quick look in my direction. “It’s my job.”
“No, it’s not. You’re a detective. Your job is to investigate crimes. Your job description doesn’t include bodyguard duty.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile, but he didn’t say anything. I sat up a little straighter and said, “None of you have to do this. Guarding me is putting you in danger.”
“Holly, we’re cops. We live and breathe danger. Every time we set foot on the street, every time we track down a suspect, we’re at risk.”
I considered that before asking, “Then why do it?”
He looked pensive for a moment, and then lifted a finger off the wheel to point at the car ahead of us: Jace’s car. “If you knew somebody was tryin’ to hurt your friend, would you step in to help her?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at me. “No hesitation?”
“No.” I would protect Jace with everything I had, which wasn’t much. But I would try.
“That’s why. An innate desire to protect those weaker or less able to protect themselves.”
“I’m gonna tell Jace you think she needs protecting because she’s in a wheelchair,” I teased.
Marx smiled. “Of that I have no doubt.”
There was a minute of silence as he concentrated on the road, and I thought about his answer. I wasn’t sure I liked it. “So . . . you took my case because you think I’m weak?”
Marx shook his head with a smile. “How did I know that question was bouncin’ around in that little head of yours?”
“My head is not little,” I objected. “It’s perfectly proportional to my body.”
“Yes, yes, it is.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel. “I took your case because it was assigned to me. And I knew from the start that somethin’ wasn’t right with it. Do I think you’re weak?” He took another moment to carefully consider his answer. “The harsh truth is that men are physically stronger. Unless a woman is trained to defend herself, there’s just no comparison. I wouldn’t call you weak, Holly, but you’re certainly less able to protect yourself than some. And in this case, you’re far outside your weight class.”
I frowned as I tried to work through his answer. Outside my weight class. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
He laughed—actually laughed—and it made me smile despite the fact that I was pretty sure he’d just, in a roundabout way, called me chunky. “No,” he said once his laughter faded. “Weight class is a boxin’ and wrestlin’ term. I mean you’re outmatched.”
Hmm. I wasn’t so sure that was what he meant. I crossed my arms over the seat belt and looked out the front window at Jace’s taillights. “So you, Jacob, and Sam volunteered to protect me around the clock because you don’t think I can protect myself.” Not that I had proved I could.
“I’ve worked a few minor stalkin’ cases before. The stalker always escalates, and in some cases, we weren’t called in until he’d already attacked the victim. Nobody died, but the resolutions weren’t ideal. The man stalkin’ you has already killed two people.” He pulled his eyes from the road to look at me. “I didn’t wanna find your body, Holly.”
I swallowed uneasily. I shrank back down in my seat and let the matter drop. I didn’t want to think about what he’d said. Jace pulled into the parking lot of the activity center, and we followed.
“Holly,” Marx said quietly after we parked. “I have no doubt that he’ll be in there somewhere. If he can, he’ll take advantage of the fact that you’re out in public just like he did at the hospital. Under no circumstances do you wander off. Are we clear?”
“I will stick to you like rubber cement.” At his puzzled expression, I clarified, “It’s . . . really cool . . . sticky stuff.” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and replied more sensibly, “No wandering. Promise.”
“All right then.”
We got out of the car and followed Jace into the building. She was vibrating with excitement. She was competitive by nature, though having an older brother so close in age had probably contributed to her love of sports and compulsive need to pulverize her opponent into dust.
The gymnasium was enormous, and there were three courts sectioned off by heavy black nets so more than one sport could be played simultaneously. The first court was abuzz with men, women, and children in wheelchairs. Jace wheeled into the fray with an overly cheerful, “Hey guys!”
Marx surveyed the room for danger as he followed me to the bleachers. I sat down on the lowest bench and bounced my legs as I waited for the game to start. I wasn’t a fan of sports, but wheelchair basketball never failed to be entertaining.
“How exactly does this work?” Marx asked quietly as he found a comfortable spot to stand.
“They bounce a ball and then throw it in the hoop.” He g
ave me a look, and I shrugged. “I don’t do sports.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because Jace does sports.”
I braced myself for some awkward social interaction when one of the guys spotted us and headed our way. He was a little older than me, with dark hair and moss-green eyes that occasionally faded to blue. I tried desperately to scrounge up his name before he reached us, but the unfortunate thing about wheels is their tendency to move quickly
He glided to a stop in front of me. “Hey, Holly.” He grinned warmly.
“Hey . . . Craig,” I said.
His grin widened. “Warren.”
Right. One of these days I would remember that. I noticed that the red T-shirt he was wearing had my favorite Bible verse on it: Philippians 4:13—”I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
“You weren’t here to see me crush Jace last week. I made a three-pointer to win the game.”
“Did she throw a tantrum?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt. “She talks a lot of trash, but people who always lose tend to do that.” He had raised his voice just a little so Jace could hear him as she came up behind him.
She took the comment in good humor, as it was intended. “This guy cheats,” she declared, throwing a thumb in his direction.
“You’re confusing cheating with skill,” he threw back.
Jace rolled her eyes as she turned back toward the court. “Are you ready yet?”
“I’ve been ready. I was waiting on you.”
“I’m gonna wipe the floor with you,” she taunted.
“You gotta catch me first.” He wheeled ahead of her with a burst of speed, and her skinny arms pumped frantically as she tried to catch up with him.
Marx stood in contemplative silence for a moment before asking, “Are they . . . together?”
“Nope. He’s married. Happily.”
The game started slowly, and then the ball blurred as it zipped back and forth between players, disappeared behind wheels, and occasionally flew in the complete wrong direction. Not all the players had the same physical capabilities as Jace and Warren. Despite their battle against each other on the court, they made every effort to pass the ball and include everyone.
Like traditional basketball, it had its moments of disaster. Some of the players collided head on, someone was accidentally elbowed in the head, and Jace flew forward out of her wheelchair and face-planted on the floor. I hissed through my teeth in sympathy.
“Should we help her?” Marx asked with a concerned look on his face.
“She’s good.”
Jace pushed herself up and, with more strength than anyone would know she had, climbed back into her wheelchair. The spill didn’t even slow her down.
“That happens at least once a month,” I told him. She occasionally got a little overexcited.
The remainder of the game played out without incident, and Jace and Warren parted ways with laughter and a few taunts about who would win the next game.
I waved good-bye to Jace from across the court as Marx ushered me toward the door. I knew she would want to mingle for a bit before heading home; she was a social butterfly, and she thrived in the type of social setting that made me want to slink away and hide.
Although we’d only been at the activity center for an hour and a half, the normalcy of it tempered some of the stress and fear that had been growing inside me for the past ten days. It was nice to feel normal again, if only for a little while.
Jacob was waiting outside the apartment when we arrived. I barely had my seat belt unsnapped before Marx opened my door. I climbed out and walked toward my apartment. Jacob smiled as I passed him.
I paused with my key in the door and turned around. “Marx.” He was halfway into his car when I called him, and he stood up so I could see him. “Thank you. For tonight.”
“You’re quite welcome, Holly.” He got back into his car and disappeared down the quiet street.
I looked at Jacob. “Where’s Sam? I thought he usually covered the night shift.”
“Usually, but his sister’s having a rough night, so we traded shifts so he could take care of her.” He gave me his boyish grin. “So you’re stuck with me for the night and probably most of the morning.”
“I guess I can live with that,” I said with a small smile. “Goodnight, Jacob.” I stepped inside and closed the door.
Despite the relaxing evening, I couldn’t sleep. When I found myself staring at my ceiling at two a.m., I knew it was hopeless. I had tried everything from deep breathing to counting fluffy sheep, but nothing seemed to push me over the edge of tiredness into sleep.
I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the kitchen. Maybe something warm would help soothe me to sleep. I made a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows for myself and made a second one for Jacob. I knew I wasn’t the easiest person to protect, and I was starting to feel a little guilty for all the cold days and nights he and Sam had to spend on the lawn.
“Jacob, I’m coming out.”
I opened the door and leaped back with a startled scream when something fell through the doorway. It landed on my kitchen floor with a muffled thump.
The mugs of hot chocolate shattered across the cement. I stared down at the body sprawled between the patio and my kitchen floor in momentary shock.
“Jacob?”
Chapter 15
JACOB LAY SPRAWLED on his back on the floor, and there was a ribbon of blood across his throat. Shock froze me where I stood, and I could feel that familiar panic raking its claws against my insides.
And then his brown eyes blinked once. He was still alive. I dropped to my knees beside him and pressed my fingers to his wrist, just to be certain I hadn’t imagined it. A quiet, irregular rhythm met my fingers, and I released the breath I hadn’t known I was holding. He was alive.
He needed an ambulance. I glanced at the radio on his belt and then thought better of it. They used some sort of code or something.
I looked past him through the doorway at the wall of eerie blackness. The full moon was hidden behind a sheet of clouds, and all I could see were pockets of orange street lights.
“Hold on, Jacob.”
I scrambled back to my side table and grabbed my phone. I dialed 9-1-1 as I sprinted back to the front door. I grabbed a towel off the counter and draped it over Jacob’s throat. I pressed my hand down on the towel, hoping to slow the bleeding without cutting off his airway.
Please, God, don’t let me kill him.
The dispatcher answered. “9-1-1 What is your emergency?”
“I have an officer . . . um . . . down. Jacob. He was guarding my door. He’s bleeding.”
Jacob blinked at the ceiling, but there was no sign of awareness in his eyes. I leaned over him. “Jacob.” He gave no indication he heard me. “Jacob, help is coming.”
When the towel beneath my hand was saturated, I threw it aside to grab another. My gaze caught my bloody hand, and I hesitated as memories pressed in on me. Focus. I forced my mind out of that dark room and away from the lump on the floor that could only be a body, and grabbed the fresh towel. I pressed it to Jacob’s throat.
“Your name?” the dispatcher asked, and judging by her tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d asked for my name.
“Holly,” I answered after a brief hesitation. “Smith. Please call Detective Richard Marx. He knows . . .”
My voice trailed off when something shifted in the darkness outside. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and I sat up straight. I stared into the dense blackness, but it gave nothing away.
“Holly,” a deep, haunting voice called.
That voice . . . it sent a chill of recognition skittering down my spine. A figure moved by the main entrance to the apartment building, and I saw the street lamp glint off something metal in his hand.
The man started toward the open doorway, and terror made me drop the phone. It wasn’t of any more use anyway. I looked down at Jacob. His body was blockin
g the doorway, and I couldn’t close the door.
The man stalked closer, unhurriedly, like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to go. The sound of his feet stepping carefully through the dead leaves raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
The sight of him drawing nearer made me want to run and hide, but that wasn’t an option. There was no climbing out a window or hiding under the bed from this man.
“You can’t run from me, Holly,” the man taunted, as if he knew the desperate thoughts tumbling through my head.
A fragment of memory slid into place: I was running through the woods at night, desperate to find a place to hide, when those words, in that voice, echoed through the trees around me.
It did nothing to help me survive now, so I blocked out the memory and tried to think. I looked at the knife drawer as I weighed my options. The killer had a knife, and he’d slit Jacob’s throat with it. I could barely cut a tomato without taking off my own finger.
I didn’t like my chances.
I had nothing else to defend us with. Our only hope of survival was the door that was standing wide open. I locked my fingers around Jacob’s wrists and heaved.
He was somewhere around 170 pounds, and I felt like my head would burst from the pressure as I tried to move an immovable object. My feet slipped in the spilled hot chocolate, and my legs nearly went out from under me.
The man who walked toward my apartment was dressed entirely in black, making him seem like little more than an apparition in the night. But the blade gleamed in his hand. I remembered Cambel’s tortured body, the words carved into him, and wondered if that was the knife.
This man wasn’t just a stalker; he was a killer.
Desperate, I pulled harder, and Jacob slid an inch at a time across the floor. Why did he have to be so heavy? I gritted my teeth and pulled for both our lives. His boots snagged on the threshold.
Come on, come on, come on . . . stupid shoes!
The killer reached the top of the steps, and I knew we weren’t going to make it. I dropped Jacob’s arms and pulled the gun from his holster. I didn’t know how to use one of these things.
