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Authors: Marianne Stillings
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there.
“Tell me I didn’t just see you do that,” he scolded. “A key under the mat, Claire? Why don’t you just leave the doors wide open with a big sign that says, Intruders welcome. Steal me blind!”
Her mouth flattened as she opened the screen door and curled her fingers around the door handle. “Aunt Sadie and I trust—”
She stopped. The handle turned, but she hadn’t unlocked the door yet.
Taylor straightened his spine. As he nodded for Claire to step back against the wall, he moved in front of her, reaching under his jacket for his .38. Grasping the butt of the weapon, he turned the brass doorknob.
“You sure your Aunt Sadie isn’t home?” he whispered.
She nodded.
His heart hammering inside his chest, he slowly shoved the door all the way open. It creaked on its hinges as it swung into the room and banged against the wall. The hollow sound echoed for a moment, then all was silent.
The square room was large and airy. Sunlight spilled in from two lace-covered windows onto the wood and glass cabinets, blue tile countertops, mellow hardwood floor. The rose-striped wallpaper was pretty, and copper pots in a variety of sizes hung in a neat row above the enamel stove. A calendar on a nail fluttered in the slight breeze made by the opening door. It was a typical country kitchen, cute and quiet and comfy.
Then he focused on the kitchen table, on what was on it.
“Houston,” he said under his breath. “We have a problem.”
Chapter 6
Secretion
Hiding something.
Claire placed her palms on Taylor’s broad back and peeked around his shoulder. When she saw what he saw, her hands flew to her mouth to stop a startled gasp.
Across the room, in the middle of the kitchen table, sat her leather purse. Arranged in a circle around it, like moons orbiting Jupiter, were her wallet, cell phone, pager, hairbrush, comb, notebook, makeup case, a roll of postage stamps, several pens, her prescription pad, business cards, tissues, and the little Swiss Army knife Betsy had given her for her birthday twelve years ago. Loose change stood stacked like chimneys—one pile each for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters.
Taylor turned, curving his fingers around her arm, tugging her away from the open door. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. Handing it to her, he murmured, “Get in my truck. The keys are in the ignition. Lock the doors. If I’m not back in five minutes, or if you hear shots fired, get the hell out of here, phone the PHPD, and request backup. Do not hang around, and above all, do not come in after me.”
Though the words had been quietly spoken, his tone held an air of unequivocal authority. His blue eyes had cooled, sharpened, and gone deadly serious. His grip on her arm was firm, his muscles taut. He seemed poised, as though he might have to take off at a dead run at the snap of a twig. Every word, every movement emphasized how Detective Taylor McKennitt expected to be obeyed without question.
Toward the back of her heart, hidden among the shadows of grief and loss and uncertainty, where, a year ago, she’d locked away her tender feelings for Taylor, she felt the deadbolt softly rattle.
“Could he still be in there?” she whispered.
“I doubt it, but I’m not going to assume anything.”
He released her arm, and she did as he asked. Once she had snapped the locks inside the truck, he nodded and turned toward the open kitchen door. His weapon in his right hand, he eased himself inside the screen door and into the kitchen.
In Claire’s hand, the cell phone grew warm and sticky. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Rolling her wrist, she checked the time. Five thirty-three. He’d said five minutes . . . three hundred seconds . . . three hundred heartbeats. An eternity.
Her gaze glued to the empty kitchen doorway, she tried to keep her breathing steady. Where was he now? Probably through the dining room, and on into the living room. He’d check the
“Tell me I didn’t just see you do that,” he scolded. “A key under the mat, Claire? Why don’t you just leave the doors wide open with a big sign that says, Intruders welcome. Steal me blind!”
Her mouth flattened as she opened the screen door and curled her fingers around the door handle. “Aunt Sadie and I trust—”
She stopped. The handle turned, but she hadn’t unlocked the door yet.
Taylor straightened his spine. As he nodded for Claire to step back against the wall, he moved in front of her, reaching under his jacket for his .38. Grasping the butt of the weapon, he turned the brass doorknob.
“You sure your Aunt Sadie isn’t home?” he whispered.
She nodded.
His heart hammering inside his chest, he slowly shoved the door all the way open. It creaked on its hinges as it swung into the room and banged against the wall. The hollow sound echoed for a moment, then all was silent.
The square room was large and airy. Sunlight spilled in from two lace-covered windows onto the wood and glass cabinets, blue tile countertops, mellow hardwood floor. The rose-striped wallpaper was pretty, and copper pots in a variety of sizes hung in a neat row above the enamel stove. A calendar on a nail fluttered in the slight breeze made by the opening door. It was a typical country kitchen, cute and quiet and comfy.
Then he focused on the kitchen table, on what was on it.
“Houston,” he said under his breath. “We have a problem.”
Chapter 6
Secretion
Hiding something.
Claire placed her palms on Taylor’s broad back and peeked around his shoulder. When she saw what he saw, her hands flew to her mouth to stop a startled gasp.
Across the room, in the middle of the kitchen table, sat her leather purse. Arranged in a circle around it, like moons orbiting Jupiter, were her wallet, cell phone, pager, hairbrush, comb, notebook, makeup case, a roll of postage stamps, several pens, her prescription pad, business cards, tissues, and the little Swiss Army knife Betsy had given her for her birthday twelve years ago. Loose change stood stacked like chimneys—one pile each for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters.
Taylor turned, curving his fingers around her arm, tugging her away from the open door. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. Handing it to her, he murmured, “Get in my truck. The keys are in the ignition. Lock the doors. If I’m not back in five minutes, or if you hear shots fired, get the hell out of here, phone the PHPD, and request backup. Do not hang around, and above all, do not come in after me.”
Though the words had been quietly spoken, his tone held an air of unequivocal authority. His blue eyes had cooled, sharpened, and gone deadly serious. His grip on her arm was firm, his muscles taut. He seemed poised, as though he might have to take off at a dead run at the snap of a twig. Every word, every movement emphasized how Detective Taylor McKennitt expected to be obeyed without question.
Toward the back of her heart, hidden among the shadows of grief and loss and uncertainty, where, a year ago, she’d locked away her tender feelings for Taylor, she felt the deadbolt softly rattle.
“Could he still be in there?” she whispered.
“I doubt it, but I’m not going to assume anything.”
He released her arm, and she did as he asked. Once she had snapped the locks inside the truck, he nodded and turned toward the open kitchen door. His weapon in his right hand, he eased himself inside the screen door and into the kitchen.
In Claire’s hand, the cell phone grew warm and sticky. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Rolling her wrist, she checked the time. Five thirty-three. He’d said five minutes . . . three hundred seconds . . . three hundred heartbeats. An eternity.
Her gaze glued to the empty kitchen doorway, she tried to keep her breathing steady. Where was he now? Probably through the dining room, and on into the living room. He’d check the
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