The Doughertys might get mad and refuse to pay her if they found out she was here. Caitlin sighed. Besides, word would get back to her dad and wouldn't he just have a field day with that? All over a stupid fluffy cat named Percy of all things.
Still, it didn't hurt to be careful. Quietly Caitlin moved from the spare bedroom the Doughertys used as an office to the master bedroom where she pulled the small gun from Mrs. Dougherty's nightstand drawer and disengaged the safety. She'd found the gun when she was looking for a pen. It was a.22, just like she'd shot dozens of times at the range with her dad. She descended the stairs, the gun pressed against the back of her leg. It was pitch black, but she was afraid to turn on a light. Stop this, Caitlin. Call the cops. But her feet kept moving, soundless on the carpet, until two steps from the bottom, a stair creaked. She stopped short, her heart pounding, listening hard.
And heard humming. There was somebody in the house and they were humming.
The screech of something heavy being dragged across the floor drowned out the humming. Then she smelled gas.
Get out. Get help. She lurched forward, stumbling when her feet hit the hardwood floor at the base of the stairs. She fell to her knees and the gun flew from her hand, skittering across the floor. Loudly.
The humming stopped. Desperately she made a move for the gun, grasping for it in the dark, her hands frantically patting at the cold hardwood. She found the gun and scrambled to her feet. Get out. Get out. Get out.
She'd taken two steps toward the door when she was hit from behind, knocked to her knees. She tried to scream, but she couldn't breathe. Together they slid a few feet befoie he pushed her to her stomach, lying on top of her. He was heavy. God, please. She struggled but he was just too heavy. In a second he twisted the gun from her hand. His breath was beating hot and hard against her ear. Then his breathing slowed and she could feel him grow hard on top of her. Not that. Please, God.
She clenched her eyes close as he thrust his hips hard, his intentions clear. "Please let me go. I'm not even supposed to be here. I promise I won't tell anyone."
"You weren't supposed to be here," he repeated. "How unlucky for you." His voice was deep, but fakely so. Like a bad Darth Vader imitation. Caitlin focused, determined to remember every last detail so that when she got away, she could tell the police.
"Please don't hurt me," she whispered.
He hesitated. She could feel him take a breath and hold it, as time stood still. Finally he let the breath out.
Then he laughed.
Sunday, November 26, 1:10 a.m.
Reed Solliday moved through the gathered crowd, listening. Watching their faces as the house across the street burned. It was an older, middle-class neighborhood and the people standing outside in the cold seemed to know each other. They stood in shock and disbelief, murmuring their fear that the wind would spread the flames to their own homes. Three older women stood to one side, their worried faces illuminated by the remains of the fire that had taken two companies to bring under control. This fire was too hot, too high, too many places within the house to feel like an accidental fire.
Despite their shock, this was the time to interview the onlookers, before they had time to share stories. Even in groups of people with nothing to hide, shared stories became homogenized stories in which relevant details could be lost.
Arsonists could go free. And making sure that didn't happen was Reed's job.
"Ladies?" He approached the three women, his shield in his hand. "My name is Lieutenant Solliday."
All three women gave him the once-over. "You're a policeman?" the middle one asked. She looked to be about seventy and tiny enough that Reed was surprised the wind hadn't blown her away. Her white hair was tightly rolled in curlers and her flannel nightgown hung past the hem of her woolen coat, dragging the frosty ground.
"Fire marshal," Reed answered. "Can I get your names?"
"I'm Emily Richter and this is Janice Kimbrough and Darlene Desmond."
"You all know this neighborhood well?"
Richter sniffed. "I've lived here for almost fifty years."
"Who lives in that house, ma'am?"
"The Doughertys used to live there. Joe and Laura. But Laura passed and Joe retired to Florida. His son and daughter-in-law live there now. Sold it to "em cheap, Joe did. Brought down all the property values in the neighborhood."
"But they're not home now," Janice Kimbrough added. "They went to Florida to see Joe for Thanksgiving."
"So nobody was in the house?" It was what the men had been told on arriving.
"Not unless they got home early," Janice said.
"But they didn't," Richter said firmly. "Their truck is too tall for the garage, so they park it in the driveway. It's not there, so they're not home yet."
"Have you ladies seen anybody hanging around that doesn't belong?"
"I saw a girl going in and out yesterday," Richter said. "Joe's son said they'd hired somebody to feed the cat." She sniffed again. "In the old days Joe would have given us his key and a bag of cat food, but his son changed all the locks. Hired some kid."
The hair on Reed's neck stood on end. Call it instinct. Call it whatever. But something felt very bad about all this. "A kid?"
"A college girl," Darlene Desmond supplied. "Joe's daughter-in-law told me she wasn't going to be living in. Just coming in twice a day to feed the cat."
"What other cars did the Doughertys drive, ladies?" Reed asked.
Janice Kimbrough's brow furrowed. "Joe Junior's wife drives a regular car. Ford?"
Richter shook her head. "Buick."
"And those are the only two vehicles they have? The truck and the Buick?" He'd seen the twisted remains of two cars in the garage. A sick feeling turned in his gut.
All three ladies nodded, exchanging puzzled glances. "That's all," Richter said.
"Thanks, ladies, you've been a big help." He jogged across the street to where Captain Larry Fletcher stood next to the rig, a radio in one hand. "Larry."
"Reed." Larry was frowning at the burning house. "Somebody made this fire."
"I think so, too. Larry, somebody might be in there."
He shook his head. "The old ladies said the owners are out of town."
"The owners hired a college kid to watch the cat."
Larry's head whipped around. "They said nobody was home."
"The girl wasn't supposed to stay overnight. There are two cars in the garage, right? The owners only kept one in there. Their other vehicle is a truck that they took with them. We've got to see if she's in there, Larry."
With a curt nod, Larry lifted his radio to his face. "Mahoney. Possible victim inside."
The radio crackled. "Understood. I'll try to go back in."
"If it's too dangerous, you come back out," Larry ordered, then turned to Reed, his eyes hard. "If she's in there…"
Reed nodded grimly. "She's probably dead. I know. I'll keep canvassing the crowd. Let me go in as soon as you can."
Sunday, November 26, 2:20 a.m.
His heart still pounded, hard and fast. It had all gone just as he'd planned.
Well, not just as he'd planned. She'd been a surprise he hadn't expected. Miss Caitlin Burnette. He pulled her driver's license from the purse he"d taken. A little souvenir of the night. She wasn't supposed to be there, she'd said. Let her go, she'd begged. She wouldn't tell anyone, she'd promised. She was lying, of course. Women were full of lies. This he knew.