Read Online Quickstep to Murder by Ella Barrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ella Barrick
Ads: Link
homes of murder victims when the crime had taken place elsewhere? I was fuzzy on police procedure, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught, even though I had a perfect right to retrieve my own property, didn’t I? Averting my eyes from the unmade bed (king-sized, of course), I pulled open the drawer on his nightstand. On top of an address book, a notepad, and a clutter of coins and old receipts I remembered from when I used to stay here, there lay a strip of photos. They were black and white and looked like they’d come from one of those photo booths at the mall, where you ducked behind the curtain and took goofy photos with your friends. Except these weren’t goofy. They featured a dark-haired woman I didn’t recognize staring directly at the camera. Huh .
I was about to shift the photos to check for my letters underneath them, when a soft whoosh came to my ears, followed by a dull clunk. The front door! Someone had opened it. Someone with a key, since I hadn’t heard a battering ram knocking it down. The police! I looked around frantically for someplace to hide. The closet was too obvious and the space under the bed too cramped, as I knew from having to wriggle under there once to retrieve a shoe kicked beneath it in the heat of passion. On instinct, I raced on tiptoe for the bathroom and stepped into the tub, careful not to rattle the shower curtain rings. Someone—a pre-me girlfriend, I suspected, or maybe the condo’s original owners—had decorated Rafe’s bathroom with a heavy fabric shower curtain in taupe and cream stripes complete with swags and tassels. I dropped to my haunches at the far end of the tub, as if that would hide me from anyone who looked in the tub, and tried to still my breathing. My heart thumped against my chest wall and I felt dizzy. Taking in a deep breath, I held it, listening intently.
Nothing. No scrape of shoes against the floor, no click of cabinet doors opening, no conversation. Not the police, then. I didn’t know if that made me more or less nervous. If not the cops, then who? Had Sherry Indrebo changed her mind and decided to retrieve the thumb drive herself? A couple minutes ticked past and still I heard nothing. I found myself leaning forward, trying to get a bead on the intruder. He—or she—was so quiet, I wondered if he suspected I was here. Had he snuck into the bathroom? If I pulled the shower curtain back, would he be there, ready to pounce?
The thought tickled the flesh on my arms and I rubbed them, stopping when the friction made a slight sound. Waiting another ten minutes by my watch, I realized I desperately had to pee. This was getting ridiculous. I hadn’t heard a thing since the door opened and closed. Very cautiously, I straightened and stepped out of the tub, wincing as I brushed the shower curtain, and the metal rings clinked against the rod. I froze, listening again—still nothing. I crept into the bedroom. No one lurked there, ready to jump me. I headed down the hall, moving a bit more freely as I became convinced that whoever had come in had already gone. I ducked into the kitchen, a tiny, galleylike affair with no place for an intruder to hide, unless they were blender-sized and could fit into a cabinet.
Stepping into the living room, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. No one. Whoever had come in hadn’t needed to search for what they wanted. What had I missed? What was here in plain sight that someone needed? My gaze drifted slowly around the room, lighting on a remote with enough buttons to operate the Enterprise , a camera lens on the wide windowsill—Rafe was an avid photographer and liked photographing birds—a paper bag full of old clothes he might’ve been taking to Goodwill, and the laptop. Could there be something on the laptop that an intruder would want? If so, why not steal the whole computer? I approached it, and stared down at the monitor, which had gone black again. It told me nothing.
I reached toward it,
I was about to shift the photos to check for my letters underneath them, when a soft whoosh came to my ears, followed by a dull clunk. The front door! Someone had opened it. Someone with a key, since I hadn’t heard a battering ram knocking it down. The police! I looked around frantically for someplace to hide. The closet was too obvious and the space under the bed too cramped, as I knew from having to wriggle under there once to retrieve a shoe kicked beneath it in the heat of passion. On instinct, I raced on tiptoe for the bathroom and stepped into the tub, careful not to rattle the shower curtain rings. Someone—a pre-me girlfriend, I suspected, or maybe the condo’s original owners—had decorated Rafe’s bathroom with a heavy fabric shower curtain in taupe and cream stripes complete with swags and tassels. I dropped to my haunches at the far end of the tub, as if that would hide me from anyone who looked in the tub, and tried to still my breathing. My heart thumped against my chest wall and I felt dizzy. Taking in a deep breath, I held it, listening intently.
Nothing. No scrape of shoes against the floor, no click of cabinet doors opening, no conversation. Not the police, then. I didn’t know if that made me more or less nervous. If not the cops, then who? Had Sherry Indrebo changed her mind and decided to retrieve the thumb drive herself? A couple minutes ticked past and still I heard nothing. I found myself leaning forward, trying to get a bead on the intruder. He—or she—was so quiet, I wondered if he suspected I was here. Had he snuck into the bathroom? If I pulled the shower curtain back, would he be there, ready to pounce?
The thought tickled the flesh on my arms and I rubbed them, stopping when the friction made a slight sound. Waiting another ten minutes by my watch, I realized I desperately had to pee. This was getting ridiculous. I hadn’t heard a thing since the door opened and closed. Very cautiously, I straightened and stepped out of the tub, wincing as I brushed the shower curtain, and the metal rings clinked against the rod. I froze, listening again—still nothing. I crept into the bedroom. No one lurked there, ready to jump me. I headed down the hall, moving a bit more freely as I became convinced that whoever had come in had already gone. I ducked into the kitchen, a tiny, galleylike affair with no place for an intruder to hide, unless they were blender-sized and could fit into a cabinet.
Stepping into the living room, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. No one. Whoever had come in hadn’t needed to search for what they wanted. What had I missed? What was here in plain sight that someone needed? My gaze drifted slowly around the room, lighting on a remote with enough buttons to operate the Enterprise , a camera lens on the wide windowsill—Rafe was an avid photographer and liked photographing birds—a paper bag full of old clothes he might’ve been taking to Goodwill, and the laptop. Could there be something on the laptop that an intruder would want? If so, why not steal the whole computer? I approached it, and stared down at the monitor, which had gone black again. It told me nothing.
I reached toward it,
Similar Books
