The thought gave her chills. She spun to the window. "Listen, you son of a—" But the line was dead.
Furious, she slammed the phone down and ran to the door. Throwing the door open, she stared in both directions down the dark street. He could have been anywhere—in a parked car or behind a bush or tree—watching her. The thought attacked her like a thousand pins, sending stabs of panic through her chest.
Back inside, she closed and locked the door and proceeded to shut the curtains. He would be smiling, she thought, but she didn't care. With the curtains shut, she dialed *69 and again heard the error recording.
"Damn," she croaked, slamming the phone down.
Marching to the center of her kitchen, she paused and then turned in a slow circle. "Tea," she said out loud. "Tea." She opened the cupboard where she kept the tea bags and searched through them one by one. Nothing appeared strange. Lifting one to the light, she stared through it, wondering what he could've replaced the tea with. But it just looked like tea. Put little Alex behind bars, he'd said. She looked for a tea bag she didn't recognize, thinking maybe he'd planted marijuana, but there was nothing.
Next, she rummaged through the drawers where she kept the tea strainer, opened the teakettle, emptied out the teapots that had been her mother's, sitting high on shelves. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
What the hell present was he talking about? She pushed her bangs off her forehead and flinched at the bruise, still tender beneath her hand. Determined, she decided to make herself a cup of tea just like she had the other night before her bath.
She filled the kettle with water, scanning the area around the sink. Then, opening a canister where she kept some specialty teas, she searched through it and found one cranberry craze. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She opened the cupboard and pulled down a mug and set it on the counter. As she did, she frowned and looked back up at the shelf that housed her eclectic collection of mugs. Two back, she spotted one she didn't recognize.
Pulling up a chair, she took a dishcloth and reached for the unfamiliar mug. Touching it only along one edge to avoid destroying fingerprints, Alex lifted it off the shelf. She twisted it until she saw a photograph that had been scanned onto one side of the mug. She'd seen similar mugs being sold in souvenir shops. It was a casual snapshot of a man and a woman on a beach. She stared at the woman. She wasn't familiar. Turning her gaze to the man, she gasped. The teakettle whistle blew and Alex spun around, the mug leaping from her hand and making a loud popping sound as it broke on the floor.
Alex didn't move, listening to the screaming kettle as though it were her own voice. From a jagged piece of broken mug, William Loeffler stared up at her.
Chapter 9
Alex closed the paper bag containing the pieces of the coffee mug and put it on the shelf next to the bags containing the caller's fingerprint and the fragments of her window. Then, taking a last look around her kitchen, she climbed the stairs toward bed. She thought about the first call and then the break-in. She'd been stupid not to report it. It was unprofessional.
A cop should always obey the law to the letter. She knew that's the way James would see it. And as soon as she'd realized someone was in her house, a smart cop would have called the police. Why hadn't she? She tried to get inside her own mind, remembering the morning before, waking up in her car, then seeing Loeffler. Because she didn't know what had happened that night. And someone else did. What if she'd done something bad—something terrible. Could she have killed Loeffler? No. It was impossible. She couldn't have killed anyone. She refused to believe it. But she wished she'd handled the situation differently.
There was nothing she could do about the past now. She could hardly call the police about a break-in that had happened over twenty-four hours ago.
Furious, she slammed the phone down and ran to the door. Throwing the door open, she stared in both directions down the dark street. He could have been anywhere—in a parked car or behind a bush or tree—watching her. The thought attacked her like a thousand pins, sending stabs of panic through her chest.
Back inside, she closed and locked the door and proceeded to shut the curtains. He would be smiling, she thought, but she didn't care. With the curtains shut, she dialed *69 and again heard the error recording.
"Damn," she croaked, slamming the phone down.
Marching to the center of her kitchen, she paused and then turned in a slow circle. "Tea," she said out loud. "Tea." She opened the cupboard where she kept the tea bags and searched through them one by one. Nothing appeared strange. Lifting one to the light, she stared through it, wondering what he could've replaced the tea with. But it just looked like tea. Put little Alex behind bars, he'd said. She looked for a tea bag she didn't recognize, thinking maybe he'd planted marijuana, but there was nothing.
Next, she rummaged through the drawers where she kept the tea strainer, opened the teakettle, emptied out the teapots that had been her mother's, sitting high on shelves. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
What the hell present was he talking about? She pushed her bangs off her forehead and flinched at the bruise, still tender beneath her hand. Determined, she decided to make herself a cup of tea just like she had the other night before her bath.
She filled the kettle with water, scanning the area around the sink. Then, opening a canister where she kept some specialty teas, she searched through it and found one cranberry craze. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She opened the cupboard and pulled down a mug and set it on the counter. As she did, she frowned and looked back up at the shelf that housed her eclectic collection of mugs. Two back, she spotted one she didn't recognize.
Pulling up a chair, she took a dishcloth and reached for the unfamiliar mug. Touching it only along one edge to avoid destroying fingerprints, Alex lifted it off the shelf. She twisted it until she saw a photograph that had been scanned onto one side of the mug. She'd seen similar mugs being sold in souvenir shops. It was a casual snapshot of a man and a woman on a beach. She stared at the woman. She wasn't familiar. Turning her gaze to the man, she gasped. The teakettle whistle blew and Alex spun around, the mug leaping from her hand and making a loud popping sound as it broke on the floor.
Alex didn't move, listening to the screaming kettle as though it were her own voice. From a jagged piece of broken mug, William Loeffler stared up at her.
Chapter 9
Alex closed the paper bag containing the pieces of the coffee mug and put it on the shelf next to the bags containing the caller's fingerprint and the fragments of her window. Then, taking a last look around her kitchen, she climbed the stairs toward bed. She thought about the first call and then the break-in. She'd been stupid not to report it. It was unprofessional.
A cop should always obey the law to the letter. She knew that's the way James would see it. And as soon as she'd realized someone was in her house, a smart cop would have called the police. Why hadn't she? She tried to get inside her own mind, remembering the morning before, waking up in her car, then seeing Loeffler. Because she didn't know what had happened that night. And someone else did. What if she'd done something bad—something terrible. Could she have killed Loeffler? No. It was impossible. She couldn't have killed anyone. She refused to believe it. But she wished she'd handled the situation differently.
There was nothing she could do about the past now. She could hardly call the police about a break-in that had happened over twenty-four hours ago.
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