Chapter 12
Fern stared at the phone in her hand in shock. And then in fear. She pulled the covers to her chest slowly and set the phone on her night table as she digested London’s shocking statement. She understood only two things. One, London was on his way to her house, and, two, he felt there was a damn good reason. And that just terrified her. She sat in her bed, just waiting—asking—to be attacked.
She slipped out from under the covers, shoved her feet into her slippers, grabbed her robe, and, with her cell phone tucked in her pocket, walked to the bedroom closet and studied it. She took a deep breath, pulled the closet door wide. Rows of clothes stared back at her. That wasn’t good enough. She dove into the back to make sure nobody hid in the shadows. Not that she knew what she would do if somebody were here. Feeling slightly better to find it empty, she turned to stare at her bedroom door.
Another two bedrooms and a bathroom were upstairs. This house was huge. An intruder could be anywhere. She crept to her bedroom door. Turning the knob, she opened it soundlessly. She tilted her head to hear any sound. But all was silent. Except the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her heart pounded against her ribs. The atmosphere might appear calm, but, in that moment, she understood something else. London was right.
Something was wrong in the house.
She didn’t know what; she didn’t know who; she didn’t know how, but she was no longer safe. Her options were limited. She had little place to hide, and she didn’t know where the sense of wrongness came from. It could be just London’s panicking. But it felt like something else altogether. There was no way to know. She closed her eyes, trying to slow her heart rate. She’d had private lessons on meditation to control the stress after she’d been charged with murder. She’d practiced a lot while leading up to and through the trial. She even continued her practice in England.
She never wanted to endure such a horrible nightmare again. With her eyes closed, all the sounds in her house were amplified. She focused on her breathing. One slow, careful breath at a time. Then a second one. Now the third. Anything to keep her nerves from making her race downstairs in a blind panic. She should have asked London how long before he would be here.
Then she heard it.
A squeak on the riser.
She froze, then stepped backward, closed her bedroom door and threw the bolt home.
This was her parents’ master bedroom. They had always worried about her escaping her prison in the night. Signs of a guilty conscious. They had locks on the door. But no way in hell that would keep out anybody who was seriously after her. She raced to the windows and looked out. There was no fire escape. She did have a small balcony, and she was only on the second floor. Jumping would be rough. Although, given her options, she would risk a broken leg. But she gained no benefit by escaping her house to be on the grounds with a broken leg and still have the intruder coming after her. The letter she’d received had said she would suffer. She figured this asshole wanted to see her locked up in jail. Not killed.
Then again, who said the same person was after her now?
She raced into the bathroom, looking for a weapon. She found a can of hairspray and several towels.
Wrapping a towel around her arm, she grabbed the hair spray. She opened the doors to the balcony. Then an inspired thought hit. She turned to her bed, tore off the top sheet and tied it to the bottom railing of her balcony. She would slide down. She stared at the ground and swallowed. Behind her the doorknob jiggled, as if someone was trying to come in.
She put the hair spray in her pocket, climbed out over the railing and grabbed the sheet. She jumped, hanging on to the sheet, her weight sending her sliding down the silky material until she hit the ground. As soon as her feet touched the grass, she bolted around the side of her house, heading for the neighbor’s home.
She had no way to know it the intruder was alone or if more than one asshole was after her. She climbed up the rocks of the side grounds and over the fence into the neighbor’s property, heading for the main street. She was still dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe and slippers. It wouldn’t be too hard to follow a trail of tiny white threads ripped off her clothing. As she raced into the street, at the far corner of her yard, headlights came from the end of the road. Was it London? Or was that a cohort of the asshole in her house?
She pulled out her phone and called London. When he answered, she said, “He’s inside the house. He was trying to get in my bedroom. I went over the railing of my balcony. I’m two houses past mine, standing close to the street corner.”
With relief, she heard him say, “I see you. I’ll be there in a second.”
The truck at the far end raced toward her. Nervous, she crouched behind some bushes. When he slowed to a stop, she saw London’s face. She ran toward him.
“Get in the car,” he ordered, leaning across to open the passenger door.
She hopped in and slammed the door shut.
“Did you see him?”
She shook her head frantically. “No, he was trying to open the bedroom door, but I had it locked.”
He glanced at her. “Those locks are generally easy to pop.”
She nodded. “My parents had a dead bolt put in.”
His eyebrows shot straight up. “Interesting.”
She shrugged. “They liked their privacy,” was all she said by way of explanation.
He pulled a U-turn at the intersection and slowly went past her house again.
She stared at her property, the shadows long and eerie. But found no sign of anyone. She hated to think she was jumpy and had let her imagination get away with her. She shook her head. “Please tell me that I didn’t imagine it.”
“I doubt it. But, if he got into your bedroom, he’d see the sheet you tied off the balcony. Then he’d know you escaped.”
She turned to look at him. “Then what? He could still be in there? Or has he bolted?”
A second vehicle pulled up on the far side of the street. She watched a man come toward the SUV. “That’s Detective Sutherland.”
“Who’s he?”
She shot London a hard look. “One of the men who helped set up the security on the house.”
London pulled the SUV over in front of her driveway and snorted. “Well, he did a piss-poor job of it.” He rolled down his window.
Detective Sutherland came over, looking at Fern. “Are you okay?”
She wrapped her arms around her middle and nodded. “He made it to my bedroom.”
“None of the alarms were triggered except for the one on the stairs.”
She stared at him in surprise. “You put an alarm on the stairs?
He nodded. “Yes.”
“What the hell did you put on her stairs, and who the hell are you?”
Detective Southerland looked at him. “A friend of hers. Somebody who would like to keep her safe and not railroaded into taking a murder charge for someone else.”
Oops. Served him right. “Any relationship to Grant Sutherland?” London asked.
*
London caught the hard look on Detective Sutherland’s face.
“Grant Sutherland, who works for the FBI? I’ve heard his name. Don’t believe we’re related.”
London wondered about the resemblance of their features. Not to mention their hard-ass attitudes. He might bring it up with Grant the next time he was hassling him. Throw him off his stride too.
They walked toward the house. At the front step, he turned and looked at Fern. “Do you have a way to get in or did you unlock it?”
“I didn’t bring my keys if that’s what you’re asking.”
Detective Sutherland reached forward to find the door unlocked. He pushed it wide and waited.
London watched as the detective did an internal check but from the front porch. London didn’t understand what was going on. In fact, as he turned toward Fern, he realized she had a faraway gaze as if she were lost in thought. “What are you doing?”
She glanced at him and flushed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
When Sutherland walked in, she stepped in behind him.
Frustrated and angry at being left out of the loop, London snapped, “You can try me.”
“What good would that do? You didn’t believe me before. You won’t believe me now.”
Yes, he probably deserved that. But, at some point, she had to let this go. “I made a mistake once. A mistake I’ve tried hard to fix, and I couldn’t. Injustices happen. That doesn’t mean it’s my fault.”
Her shoulders sagged ever-so-slightly. She nodded and said, “No, it isn’t. But you’re the only target I have.”
He could say little regarding that. He didn’t want her to blame him. He blamed himself enough.
As they walked through her house, he stayed close enough to hear her conversation with Sutherland. Something was going on here that London didn’t quite understand.
“Any idea how he got in?” she asked Sutherland.
“No, not yet.” Sutherland did a quick pass through the living room and the rest of the main floor.
London watched, not understanding what Sutherland was looking for. He didn’t approach any of the windows. He seemed to visually check the latches and the locks on the door.
“Nothing’s been disturbed,” Sutherland said. When he headed to the stairs to go up, he stopped and smiled. “There’s the trigger I felt.”
As he pointed halfway up the stairs, she nodded. “I heard a squeak when he came up. My parents were quite paranoid. They often had discussions about getting the stairs fixed, but my father said it was a hell of an early warning system, so they never did.”
Sutherland nodded and headed up. She followed. London, still quiet and watchful, brought up the rear. They went through the bedrooms; again Sutherland looked at all the windows and the doors, but he didn’t touch anything. At the master bedroom, he stopped. “It looks like he went down the sheet, the same as you.”
“Shit.” London walked around them and headed to the balcony. His blood ran cold when he saw the sheet she’d tied to the bottom railing. To think she’d been forced to escape her own house like this was just mind-blowing.
She laughed and said, “I guess I don’t need these anymore.”
London turned in time to see her unravel the towel from her arm and pull the hair spray from her pocket. She returned both to the bathroom. His jaw tensed. No woman should fear for her life, especially in her own damn home. He turned to Sutherland. “How can you tell he went out the window?”
Sutherland, a mocking smile playing at the corner of his mouth, said, “I can see his energy.” He spun on his heels, turned and walked out.
London glared at the empty doorway.
Fern exited the bathroom and smiled. “Stefan sent him, and I trust Stefan.”
“Kronos?” He stared at her in frustration, his hands in fists he couldn’t quite unlock. He hated feeling helpless. He hated feeling like he was on the outside. It was as if these two had a bond. A knowledge and a connection he couldn’t access. It really bugged him. He wanted to be part of her inner circle but didn’t even know what the hell her inner circle was. And that bothered him even more.
He was prepared to do anything to get back into her good graces again. Last time she’d shut him out, and he’d been forced to watch her day by day fade a little more in front of him. And he had been helpless to stop the circus. He still didn’t understand how she’d gotten off. But she had, and, for that, he was incredibly grateful.
Arriving downstairs, he heard her last words to Sutherland.
“Stefan says the energy trail ran cold quickly.”
Sutherland nodded. “I’d suspect he may have had a vehicle close by. Might’ve been a block away. He likely went over the back fence. I haven’t checked that out yet. I want to know where he was staying and why.”
“What do you mean, staying?”
Sutherland turned to study her. “He was inside when I set up the security.”
She stared at him in shock. “How is it you didn’t know he was here?”
London snorted. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know.”
“Remember you said no other windows or doors were downstairs?”
“Did I say that?” She frowned. “There are two windows in the basement though.”
He nodded. “I was only setting up security at all the points of entry.”
She nodded. “So he gained access, in and out, via those two basement windows.”
In a tired voice, he said, “And I didn’t pick up his energy inside the house.”
She winced. “I suppose if he’d been here long enough, there wouldn’t have been much residual energy?”
“No. Like an air freshener that diminishes over time, energy dissipates fairly quickly. Or he isn’t leaving much of the trail. Maybe he has a way to hide it.”
She stared at him in confusion. “Is something like that possible?”
“As far as energy learning goes, anything is possible. It seems like the more you can dream up, the more people can do.”
She nodded and pulled open the door to the basement. “He came from down here then.”
London stepped forward, pulling his weapon. “Stay back. I’ll go first.” With his weapon ready, he headed down the stairs, doing a quick search. He called back up, “It’s all clear.”
The other two came down, and they all looked at a stack of furniture and boxes. Fern said, “Those chairs were on top of the couch before.”
“How long ago?” London asked her.
She shrugged. “I haven’t been down here since before the trial. After the trial, I left for England right away. That was more than six months ago.”
“So it could have happened anytime.”
“My vote is he was here in the last twenty-four hours,” Detective Sutherland said. “This area’s still full of his energy.”
“You’re saying he was here, hiding in my basement while I was upstairs?”
Sutherland nodded. “Predators are predators for a damn good reason. They are good at it. They stay hidden and undetected for a long time. But they do make mistakes.”
London turned in a slow circle. “But if he was here for a long enough time, he would have used the washroom.”
She pointed toward the far end. “There’s the bathroom.”
London opened the door. It was, indeed, a bathroom. Shower, toilet and sink. Water droplets were in the sink and water on the toilet as if it had been wiped. A large closed door had been long painted over. The more he studied it, the more uneasy he was. He turned to the other two. “Empty but recently used. I think he wiped it down afterward.”
Sutherland swore softly.
Fern turned to look at both men. “What does that mean?”
“It usually means a pro.”
She stared at him, the color completely washing out of her skin. “A pro what?”
Gently he said, “A professional killer—at least one who’s done this before.” He paused, then added, “Or at least someone who understands police procedures.”