her.
She needed Dallas; she needed someone.
Dad would be out of town for two more weeks. And Scottyâbig strong guy that he was, she was afraid that Scotty would do nothing but worry.
She needed Dallas. Needed, even more than Dallasâs comforting, the facts that he would put together. Fingerprints. Coronerâs report. Ballistic information. Cold forensic facts that would help her understand what had happened.
She wondered what the neighbors had seen. Her nausea had fled, but she felt shaky and displaced. Nothing made sense. Staring at Rupert, she found herself swallowing back a sudden inexplicable urge to scream, a primitive gutteral response born not of pain for Rupert or of empathy, but an animal cry of fear and defiance.
What had someone done? What had someone done not only to Rupert but to her?
Glancing to the back of the garage, into the shadows around the water heater and furnace she realized only then that the killer might still be there, perhaps standing behind those appliances silently watching her.
Backing away, she stared into the dim corners where the light didnât reach, expecting to see a figure emerge, perhaps from behind the stacked plywood or from behind one of the old mantels sheâd collected or the stack of newel posts. She had no weapon to defend herself, short of grabbing a hammer. She studied the low door beneath the inner stairs that opened to a storage closet. She breathed a sigh when she saw that the bolt was still driven home.
She longed for her gun, which was upstairs in her night table. How many times did one need a .38 revolver to fetch the Sunday paper? Frightened by the shadows at the back of the garage behind what Dallas called her junk pile, she turned swiftly to the pedestrian door and, using the rag in her hand to open it, she retreated to the open driveway.
If sheâd had her truck keys she would have hopped in and taken off, made her escape in her robe and called the department from some neighborâs home. Her cell phone of course was in her purse, by the bed, near her gun. Her truck keys were on the kitchen table. She felt totally naked and defenseless. Scuffing barefoot over the dried mud the neighborâs dog had left across the concrete, she hurried up the outside stairs. She paused with her hand on the knob.
Sheâd left the front door unlocked behind her. Now, when she entered, would Rupertâs killer be waiting?
But why would someone set her up as if sheâd killed Rupert, then destroy the scenario by killing her as well? That didnât make any sense.
She could imagine any number of estranged and bitter husbands who would like to see Rupert dead, but why would they make her the patsy? What motive would any of them haveâexcept to put themselves in the clear, of course? And why not? What better suspect than an estranged and bitter wife?
Moving inside, glancing through to the night table at the far end of the room, she slipped her truck keys into the pocket of her robe and eased open a cutlery drawer, soundlessly lifting out the vegetable cleaver. Then stepping to her desk, she dialed the department, using the 911 number.
The dispatcher told her that Dallas was out of the station. She told the dispatcher who she was and that there was a dead man in her garage.
âIâm going to search the apartment, if youâd like to stay on the line.â Laying the phone down as the dispatcher yelled at her not to do that, to get out of theapartmentâand warily clutching the cleaverâshe moved to the night table to retrieve her gun.
Pulling the drawer open, she stopped, frozen.
Empty.
Notebook, pencils, tissues, and face cream. No gun.
Her face burned at her carelessness. The gun was in her glove compartment. She hadnât brought it up last night or the night before; it had been there since she left San Andreas. She hadnât touched it since she packed up the truck and headed out, day before yesterday.
The
She needed Dallas; she needed someone.
Dad would be out of town for two more weeks. And Scottyâbig strong guy that he was, she was afraid that Scotty would do nothing but worry.
She needed Dallas. Needed, even more than Dallasâs comforting, the facts that he would put together. Fingerprints. Coronerâs report. Ballistic information. Cold forensic facts that would help her understand what had happened.
She wondered what the neighbors had seen. Her nausea had fled, but she felt shaky and displaced. Nothing made sense. Staring at Rupert, she found herself swallowing back a sudden inexplicable urge to scream, a primitive gutteral response born not of pain for Rupert or of empathy, but an animal cry of fear and defiance.
What had someone done? What had someone done not only to Rupert but to her?
Glancing to the back of the garage, into the shadows around the water heater and furnace she realized only then that the killer might still be there, perhaps standing behind those appliances silently watching her.
Backing away, she stared into the dim corners where the light didnât reach, expecting to see a figure emerge, perhaps from behind the stacked plywood or from behind one of the old mantels sheâd collected or the stack of newel posts. She had no weapon to defend herself, short of grabbing a hammer. She studied the low door beneath the inner stairs that opened to a storage closet. She breathed a sigh when she saw that the bolt was still driven home.
She longed for her gun, which was upstairs in her night table. How many times did one need a .38 revolver to fetch the Sunday paper? Frightened by the shadows at the back of the garage behind what Dallas called her junk pile, she turned swiftly to the pedestrian door and, using the rag in her hand to open it, she retreated to the open driveway.
If sheâd had her truck keys she would have hopped in and taken off, made her escape in her robe and called the department from some neighborâs home. Her cell phone of course was in her purse, by the bed, near her gun. Her truck keys were on the kitchen table. She felt totally naked and defenseless. Scuffing barefoot over the dried mud the neighborâs dog had left across the concrete, she hurried up the outside stairs. She paused with her hand on the knob.
Sheâd left the front door unlocked behind her. Now, when she entered, would Rupertâs killer be waiting?
But why would someone set her up as if sheâd killed Rupert, then destroy the scenario by killing her as well? That didnât make any sense.
She could imagine any number of estranged and bitter husbands who would like to see Rupert dead, but why would they make her the patsy? What motive would any of them haveâexcept to put themselves in the clear, of course? And why not? What better suspect than an estranged and bitter wife?
Moving inside, glancing through to the night table at the far end of the room, she slipped her truck keys into the pocket of her robe and eased open a cutlery drawer, soundlessly lifting out the vegetable cleaver. Then stepping to her desk, she dialed the department, using the 911 number.
The dispatcher told her that Dallas was out of the station. She told the dispatcher who she was and that there was a dead man in her garage.
âIâm going to search the apartment, if youâd like to stay on the line.â Laying the phone down as the dispatcher yelled at her not to do that, to get out of theapartmentâand warily clutching the cleaverâshe moved to the night table to retrieve her gun.
Pulling the drawer open, she stopped, frozen.
Empty.
Notebook, pencils, tissues, and face cream. No gun.
Her face burned at her carelessness. The gun was in her glove compartment. She hadnât brought it up last night or the night before; it had been there since she left San Andreas. She hadnât touched it since she packed up the truck and headed out, day before yesterday.
The
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