it this afternoon. How was your morning?”
“Productive. I got a mound of paperwork done, and Kinsey did some footwork at the courthouse. This afternoon I’ve got a consultation with a new client and a meeting at four. We’rethrough with lunch and need to get back. I just wanted to check in.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll call you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you, too. ’Bye.”
Ellen put the phone back in her purse, aware of Mina’s probing eyes. “That was Guy—just checking to see how my morning went.”
There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.
“You avoided telling him you were with me,” Mina said.
Ellen’s mind raced with excuses and she finally said, “He’s been after me to get back to my writing, and I told him last night that I’d cancelled my other commitments so I could work on the book. I hadn’t planned on spending the morning with you—I’m glad I did—but I doubt he would agree that it should have preempted my writing.”
Mina’s forehead formed deep ridges. “You are kind, Ellen. But your eyes tell me lack of writing is not real issue.”
Ellen pulled her Thunderbird into the garage, the image of Mina’s hurt expression still fresh in her mind, and her inability to defend Guy picking at her conscience.
She pushed the button and lowered the garage door, then got out of the car and started to open the door to the kitchen and felt something blocking it. She pushed with her shoulder and felt something move, then stepped inside and froze, her heart racing, her eyes flitting around the room. The cupboards were open and everything had been pulled out and dumped on the floor and countertops—silverware, pots and pans, spices, canned goods. Dishes lay broken in pieces across the floor.
Ellen turned around and ran back to the car. She backed out of the garage, drove down the block, then pulled over to the curb. She accessed the menu on her cell phone and found thenumber for the Seaport Police Department. She hit auto dial, her mind racing with questions.
“Seaport Police Department, how many I direct your call?”
“This is Ellen Jones at 206 Live Oak Place. I just got home and found my kitchen ransacked—maybe my entire house, I’m not sure. I left as soon as I saw the mess. The intruder may still be in there.”
“Where are you, ma’am?”
“I’m in my car. I drove down the block from my house and called you.”
“Okay. Hold the line, please.”
Ellen took a slow, deep breath and wondered what she had been thinking when she talked Guy out of getting an alarm system.
“You still there, Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go back in the house. Officers will be there in a couple minutes.”
“All right, thank you.”
Ellen disconnected the call and felt at the same time numb and violated. She thought about calling Guy but decided against it. It was probably better to find out what she was dealing with before she alarmed him.
Ellen started the car, made a U-turn, then drove up the block and pulled over in front of a neighbor’s house, her eyes fixed on the front of her own home. She didn’t see any sign of forced entry or anything that even looked suspicious. Was someone still in there? Had he found what he wanted?
Ellen felt a chill crawl up her back and was hit with the same eerie feeling she’d had when she was editor of the Daily News and was stalked by a kidnapper who wanted her to print his threatening poems to torment the father of his captured victim. She had never before or since encountered such evil and hoped she never would.
In her rearview mirror, she saw a squad car approaching. She got out of her car and walked over to the curb and waved till the car pulled over in front of her house. Two officers got out and one looked familiar.
“Mrs. Jones, Investigator Backus. Chief Seevers and I came and talked to you about the Hamilton case.”
Ellen shook his hand. “Yes, I remember.”
“This is Officer Rutgers. Tell
“Productive. I got a mound of paperwork done, and Kinsey did some footwork at the courthouse. This afternoon I’ve got a consultation with a new client and a meeting at four. We’rethrough with lunch and need to get back. I just wanted to check in.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll call you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you, too. ’Bye.”
Ellen put the phone back in her purse, aware of Mina’s probing eyes. “That was Guy—just checking to see how my morning went.”
There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.
“You avoided telling him you were with me,” Mina said.
Ellen’s mind raced with excuses and she finally said, “He’s been after me to get back to my writing, and I told him last night that I’d cancelled my other commitments so I could work on the book. I hadn’t planned on spending the morning with you—I’m glad I did—but I doubt he would agree that it should have preempted my writing.”
Mina’s forehead formed deep ridges. “You are kind, Ellen. But your eyes tell me lack of writing is not real issue.”
Ellen pulled her Thunderbird into the garage, the image of Mina’s hurt expression still fresh in her mind, and her inability to defend Guy picking at her conscience.
She pushed the button and lowered the garage door, then got out of the car and started to open the door to the kitchen and felt something blocking it. She pushed with her shoulder and felt something move, then stepped inside and froze, her heart racing, her eyes flitting around the room. The cupboards were open and everything had been pulled out and dumped on the floor and countertops—silverware, pots and pans, spices, canned goods. Dishes lay broken in pieces across the floor.
Ellen turned around and ran back to the car. She backed out of the garage, drove down the block, then pulled over to the curb. She accessed the menu on her cell phone and found thenumber for the Seaport Police Department. She hit auto dial, her mind racing with questions.
“Seaport Police Department, how many I direct your call?”
“This is Ellen Jones at 206 Live Oak Place. I just got home and found my kitchen ransacked—maybe my entire house, I’m not sure. I left as soon as I saw the mess. The intruder may still be in there.”
“Where are you, ma’am?”
“I’m in my car. I drove down the block from my house and called you.”
“Okay. Hold the line, please.”
Ellen took a slow, deep breath and wondered what she had been thinking when she talked Guy out of getting an alarm system.
“You still there, Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go back in the house. Officers will be there in a couple minutes.”
“All right, thank you.”
Ellen disconnected the call and felt at the same time numb and violated. She thought about calling Guy but decided against it. It was probably better to find out what she was dealing with before she alarmed him.
Ellen started the car, made a U-turn, then drove up the block and pulled over in front of a neighbor’s house, her eyes fixed on the front of her own home. She didn’t see any sign of forced entry or anything that even looked suspicious. Was someone still in there? Had he found what he wanted?
Ellen felt a chill crawl up her back and was hit with the same eerie feeling she’d had when she was editor of the Daily News and was stalked by a kidnapper who wanted her to print his threatening poems to torment the father of his captured victim. She had never before or since encountered such evil and hoped she never would.
In her rearview mirror, she saw a squad car approaching. She got out of her car and walked over to the curb and waved till the car pulled over in front of her house. Two officers got out and one looked familiar.
“Mrs. Jones, Investigator Backus. Chief Seevers and I came and talked to you about the Hamilton case.”
Ellen shook his hand. “Yes, I remember.”
“This is Officer Rutgers. Tell
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