oldâ¦.
The yard had so many titillating secrets, didnât it? And, like the underwear cache he hoped to find, the best of those secrets were thanks to Butch.
Take the body in that old freezer. Julia. The young runaway whoâd lived with them for a few months. Dean hated that she was dead. Heâd liked her when she was alive. But there was some comfort in knowing sheâd never leave him.
He figured heâd keep her company while he waited for Butch to return. The exact time of his brother-in-lawâs arrival might be of interest.
Â
Francesca held the knife and the pepper spray in one hand while she closed and locked her bedroom door. Such a flimsy barrier might not stop an intruder, especially an intruder who looked as powerful as Butch. But if he tried to reach her through the hall, heâd have to deal with that locked door and sheâd definitely know he was coming.
Every bit as jittery as sheâd been in the salvage yard, she drew a steadying breath. Sheâd been on edge since her last encounter with Mr. Vaughn, which made it all too easy to fly into a panic now. But panicking wouldnât help. She had to be able to think clearly.
What next? What more could she do?
Setting her weapons aside, she shoved the dresseracross the hardwood floor toward the door sheâd just locked. Maybe her actions would be pointlessâmaybe heâd break the slider leading from the porch overlooking her pool. But she had to seal off as many points of entry as possible so she could monitor those that were left. Doing something was better than doing nothing.
After wrestling the dresser over to the door, she crouched against the wall where she could keep an eye on the windows as well as the slider. Now that sheâd blocked out the light that had been filtering in from the hall, the darkness felt thick and palpable. She wouldâve liked to throw the switch in her bedroom, but she didnât want to make it any easier for Butch to see in. As counterintuitive as it seemed, darkness was safer.
What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?
Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didnât leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didnât they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.
His blood would work nicely.
A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?
Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.
This time she thought she spotted a manâ¦.
No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.
Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, shewiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.
She considered dressing so sheâd feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then sheâd have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid heâd strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunityâ¦.
Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his timeâuntil the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nervesâand use her key?
As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The
The yard had so many titillating secrets, didnât it? And, like the underwear cache he hoped to find, the best of those secrets were thanks to Butch.
Take the body in that old freezer. Julia. The young runaway whoâd lived with them for a few months. Dean hated that she was dead. Heâd liked her when she was alive. But there was some comfort in knowing sheâd never leave him.
He figured heâd keep her company while he waited for Butch to return. The exact time of his brother-in-lawâs arrival might be of interest.
Â
Francesca held the knife and the pepper spray in one hand while she closed and locked her bedroom door. Such a flimsy barrier might not stop an intruder, especially an intruder who looked as powerful as Butch. But if he tried to reach her through the hall, heâd have to deal with that locked door and sheâd definitely know he was coming.
Every bit as jittery as sheâd been in the salvage yard, she drew a steadying breath. Sheâd been on edge since her last encounter with Mr. Vaughn, which made it all too easy to fly into a panic now. But panicking wouldnât help. She had to be able to think clearly.
What next? What more could she do?
Setting her weapons aside, she shoved the dresseracross the hardwood floor toward the door sheâd just locked. Maybe her actions would be pointlessâmaybe heâd break the slider leading from the porch overlooking her pool. But she had to seal off as many points of entry as possible so she could monitor those that were left. Doing something was better than doing nothing.
After wrestling the dresser over to the door, she crouched against the wall where she could keep an eye on the windows as well as the slider. Now that sheâd blocked out the light that had been filtering in from the hall, the darkness felt thick and palpable. She wouldâve liked to throw the switch in her bedroom, but she didnât want to make it any easier for Butch to see in. As counterintuitive as it seemed, darkness was safer.
What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?
Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didnât leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didnât they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.
His blood would work nicely.
A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?
Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.
This time she thought she spotted a manâ¦.
No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.
Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, shewiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.
She considered dressing so sheâd feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then sheâd have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid heâd strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunityâ¦.
Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his timeâuntil the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nervesâand use her key?
As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The
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