umbrella and your dog, I’m sure we’re as safe as squirrels up a tree until they get here.”
“Very funny.”
Then we both heard it.
A shuffle or a scrape. Coming from upstairs.
Kate gasped, her umbrella weapon clattering to the floor. She zipped to my side, dragging Webster with her. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, digging her fingers into my arm.
Webster started pedaling, his nails clicking on the wood floor.
“Calm down or you’ll give the poor dog a heart attack. This is our house, and I’m finding out this minute what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe there’s a bird trapped upstairs—or even a possum.” I sounded brave enough. But was I trying to convince Kate—or myself?
“Okay,” she said. “But help me put Webster in the kitchen first. He’ll never go up those stairs.”
She was right. “Come on, you poor excuse for a dog,” I said, pushing him from the rear.
Kate stuck with his front end, but when we reached the kitchen door, footsteps—running, pounding steps—echoed through what I thought had been a vacant house.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
Neither of us had time to move before we saw a gray blur race through the foyer and out the open front door.
Kate started screaming, “Oh, my God!” over and over, which sent Webster flying through the kitchen entry beyond us.
I almost went after whoever ran off, buoyed by the idea that the intruder felt compelled to escape. I’ve always preferred my criminal types on the spineless end of the bell curve. But I didn’t think that would be too smart, so I said, “Pull yourself together, Kate. We’ll corral Webster and wait in my car for the police.”
I turned my attention to the kitchen, where sun persisted through the grime of curtainless windows, striping the room with dust-filled rays of light.
What I saw didn’t register at first, considering I expected to see Webster cowering in the corner rather than where he was—sitting in the center of the room . . . next to the man lying in a pool of blood.
7
I hurried over and knelt next to the man, pressing my fingers to his throat to take yet another pulse in less than a week.
Kate flipped on the light and opened the blinds. That was when I realized whose pulse I was taking.
“You’d better not be dead,” I said under my breath. “We’ve got too much unfinished business, buster.”
But Steven’s pulse was strong—racing, in fact. Blood still oozed from a gash at the base of his skull, and with nothing better available, I pressed the hem of my T-shirt against the wound.
“Is he . . . you know?” Kate stood above us, her mouth white-ringed with fear.
Steven answered the question himself by moaning and turning his head in my direction. “Abby? Is that you?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
His eyes opened wider and then his hand flew to the back of his head.
“Don’t move,” I said sharply.
But did he listen? Of course not. He sat bolt upright, like Dracula popping up from his casket.
“What in hell happened?” He surveyed the room, obviously disoriented.
Meanwhile, Webster plopped down in the corner.
Steven gingerly removed his pale yellow Polo and held the wadded shirt against the gash.
A siren whined from several blocks away. Our siren, I hoped.
“We called the police. I’m sure they’ll call you an ambulance,” I said.
“I don’t need any ambulance. If I ever get my hands on the bastard who hit me, he’ll be one sorry-ass cowboy.” Steven slowly rose, but once upright, wavered on wobbly legs.
I supported him by cupping his elbow. “Why don’t you humor me and sit still a minute longer?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, okay?” He flushed with anger.
“Back to your old self in record time, I see. Fine. But the next time you need help, count me out.”
“She’s just glad you’re okay, Steven,” Kate said. “She gets a teensy bit irritable when she’s scared.”
“You don’t need to explain my behavior to him, Kate. He’s an
“Very funny.”
Then we both heard it.
A shuffle or a scrape. Coming from upstairs.
Kate gasped, her umbrella weapon clattering to the floor. She zipped to my side, dragging Webster with her. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, digging her fingers into my arm.
Webster started pedaling, his nails clicking on the wood floor.
“Calm down or you’ll give the poor dog a heart attack. This is our house, and I’m finding out this minute what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe there’s a bird trapped upstairs—or even a possum.” I sounded brave enough. But was I trying to convince Kate—or myself?
“Okay,” she said. “But help me put Webster in the kitchen first. He’ll never go up those stairs.”
She was right. “Come on, you poor excuse for a dog,” I said, pushing him from the rear.
Kate stuck with his front end, but when we reached the kitchen door, footsteps—running, pounding steps—echoed through what I thought had been a vacant house.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
Neither of us had time to move before we saw a gray blur race through the foyer and out the open front door.
Kate started screaming, “Oh, my God!” over and over, which sent Webster flying through the kitchen entry beyond us.
I almost went after whoever ran off, buoyed by the idea that the intruder felt compelled to escape. I’ve always preferred my criminal types on the spineless end of the bell curve. But I didn’t think that would be too smart, so I said, “Pull yourself together, Kate. We’ll corral Webster and wait in my car for the police.”
I turned my attention to the kitchen, where sun persisted through the grime of curtainless windows, striping the room with dust-filled rays of light.
What I saw didn’t register at first, considering I expected to see Webster cowering in the corner rather than where he was—sitting in the center of the room . . . next to the man lying in a pool of blood.
7
I hurried over and knelt next to the man, pressing my fingers to his throat to take yet another pulse in less than a week.
Kate flipped on the light and opened the blinds. That was when I realized whose pulse I was taking.
“You’d better not be dead,” I said under my breath. “We’ve got too much unfinished business, buster.”
But Steven’s pulse was strong—racing, in fact. Blood still oozed from a gash at the base of his skull, and with nothing better available, I pressed the hem of my T-shirt against the wound.
“Is he . . . you know?” Kate stood above us, her mouth white-ringed with fear.
Steven answered the question himself by moaning and turning his head in my direction. “Abby? Is that you?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
His eyes opened wider and then his hand flew to the back of his head.
“Don’t move,” I said sharply.
But did he listen? Of course not. He sat bolt upright, like Dracula popping up from his casket.
“What in hell happened?” He surveyed the room, obviously disoriented.
Meanwhile, Webster plopped down in the corner.
Steven gingerly removed his pale yellow Polo and held the wadded shirt against the gash.
A siren whined from several blocks away. Our siren, I hoped.
“We called the police. I’m sure they’ll call you an ambulance,” I said.
“I don’t need any ambulance. If I ever get my hands on the bastard who hit me, he’ll be one sorry-ass cowboy.” Steven slowly rose, but once upright, wavered on wobbly legs.
I supported him by cupping his elbow. “Why don’t you humor me and sit still a minute longer?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, okay?” He flushed with anger.
“Back to your old self in record time, I see. Fine. But the next time you need help, count me out.”
“She’s just glad you’re okay, Steven,” Kate said. “She gets a teensy bit irritable when she’s scared.”
“You don’t need to explain my behavior to him, Kate. He’s an
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