Melissa knew that look.
Her heart did a little stutter step. Part of her couldn’t believe it. The other part, deep inside, had known all along.
Her left fingers curled into her palm. What did she want to happen next?
The moment ballooned, then stretched…stretched…Still Baxter surveyed Melissa—until her heart sizzled…splayed open under the heat of his stare. Until she could take…no…more…
Baxter blinked.
The balloon popped.
Abruptly he turned back to his listings.
THIRTY-THREE
FEBRUARY 2010
In the darkness Melissa and I crouched at the end of a sofa. Somewhere close by, the living room gave way to the dining room through an arched entryway. That much I had seen when the light was on. I couldn’t see it now.
Melissa balanced beside me, one hand on my arm. She knew the house. I had to follow her lead. We didn’t dare talk. We hardly dared breathe.
Questions flailed in my mind. Who was here? What kind of trouble had Melissa gotten herself into?
A cautious step hit the tiled entryway.
Melissa edged forward, making no sound. I stayed right behind, scared that I would knock into furniture, create a disturbance that would give us away.
In the dining room we crept by the wall. My adjusting eyesight could dimly make out a long table and chairs to our right. If I could see them, surely someone entering the room could see our movement.
The entryway light burst on.
Melissa surged through the rest of the dining room, through an opening into the kitchen. Light spilled from the front door area, past the den and up the hall, diffusing at the kitchen’s entrance. Cool air filtered from the back of the room. I could barely see the opened sliding door.
The house’s layout formed a circle. Any minute now the intruder could appear from the dining room.
Unless he thought we’d fled to the den and upstairs.
Maybe it was just a burglar. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt us at all.
But Melissa’s horrified expression, her immediate reaction had screamed that he did.
Melissa pushed me around a central cooking island and down behind it. She scurried without noise toward the kitchen table, yanked up a purse. She plunged her hand inside.
It came up with a handgun.
Melissa swiveled toward the open sliding glass door, motioning me to follow. I rose from a crouch—and movement from the dining room caught my eye. I gasped, turned. Melissa spun around.
A man appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dressed in black right down to gloves, his face in a ski mask. He raised a gun. I hit the floor.
Somebody fired.
THIRTY-FOUR
I cringed behind the cooking island. In my mind’s eye I saw Melissa fall, the gunman come for me next.
A grunt of pain burst from the dining room doorway. Followed by Melissa’s footsteps at the sliding glass door. I twisted my head to see her escaping into the night.
I sprang up and raced after her.
Something whizzed by my ear as I flung myself outside.
Bullet.
I ran harder.
I found myself swerving left across a patio, Melissa before me. We careened around the corner of the house and down the side. Across the front yard toward the sidewalk. A street lamp two houses up sprayed far too much light—our pursuer could easily see us.
Gritting my teeth, I sprinted to catch up to Melissa, thumped her on the shoulder blade. “To my car.” I spun left.
We sprinted down the sidewalk, my right hand scrambling within my purse, seeking my car keys. My legs ran of their own accord, my mind spinning new fatal images. How far was the man behind us? How badly was he hit?
We reached my SUV. I angled off the curb, toward the driver’s side. My hand closed on metal, the plastic of my key ring. I yanked it out, frantically pushing the “open” button.
With a blessed click, the locks released.
Melissa and I threw ourselves into the car. I thrust the key into the ignition, casting desperate glances up the street. No one.
The car started. I gunned the motor, surged through a U-turn, and sped down the street. Melissa perched forward in her seat, hands gripping the dashboard. At the next block I veered right. Two more blocks, then left. I zigzagged through residential streets until I knew we hadn’t been followed.
“Where can we go?” My words pushed through clenched teeth.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to know someone.”
“You did this to me!”
What?
We hit a stoplight at a major intersection. A sign read “Left to 101.” I turned onto the busy road and hit the freeway a half a mile up. Took an exit heading south.
Melissa pushed back in her seat, cursing under her breath.
“Did you kill him?” I asked.
“I think I hit him in the thigh.”
The thigh. Enough to slow him down. He’d have to go to the hospital.
Would someone soon take his place?
“Melissa, where’s your gun?”
“It’s not mine; it’s gun-crazy Tony’s,” she spat. “I just borrowed it.”
“I don’t care whose it is. Where is it right now?”
“In my purse!”
It’s Tony’s. “He know you have it?”
“Would you stop with the questions!”
“I just want to know, Melissa.” Ice layered my voice.
“Shut up! He’s not going to miss one little handgun!”
I drove on, both of us fuming.
Two exits down I got off the freeway and drove down a street until we passed a housing development on our right. I turned into it, zigzagged through streets again. Nice two-stories, well-kept lawns. A quiet neighborhood.
At an empty lot I pulled over to the curb and cut the engine. For the moment we were safe. No car had followed us. I knew that. “Who—”
“You almost got me killed.” Melissa’s voice spewed venom.
“Me?”
“Somebody obviously followed you to that house.”
“Nobody followed me. I’ve been out looking for you all day. I’ve been all kinds of places. No one followed me.”
“Yeah, right. It just so happens the minute you show up, so does a gunman.” She blazed me with a look. “Who told you I know about Linda’s death? That I know where she’s buried?”
My eyes closed. “I don’t know. A hooded man in a mask. On the road at night.”
“What?”
“He told me to look for you. That you could bring Baxter to justice.”
Melissa snorted. “And you just believed him? Just did what he told you, without even knowing who he was?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it! You know where Linda’s buried!”
She cursed under her breath.
“I wanted Baxter to pay, Melissa. I’ve wanted that for six years. When the man told me you know how she died—that you saw it—I had to look for you.”
Melissa thrust her hands in the air. “Don’t you get it? Baxter sent that man!”
THIRTY-FIVE
JULY 2004
On the Fourth of July Melissa stood at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches and a salad for dinner. Neither she, Baxter, nor Linda needed much to eat after pigging out at the town-wide holiday lunch picnic. Linda was now in her bedroom, nursing a bad cold that had turned worse after being out all afternoon in the hot sun. She had obviously tried hard to be cheerful and social with their friends, even managing a couple of her deep-throated laughs. But Melissa knew she felt miserable. By the time they made it home Linda was coughing and looked flushed. The thermometer said she had a fever of 101.