“Everything looks the same in here. I mean”—I picked up Steve’s golf club and tossed it back into the closet —“it doesn’t look like anything was stolen.”
“We think Mr. Howard scared the intruder before he actually had a chance to get in.”
I shuddered, glancing around at my IKEA furniture, my collection of overdue library books, the hand-me-down pillows from Grandma’s old couch. “What would anyone want to break in here for?”
Parker shrugged, heading into the kitchen and helping himself to napkins and plates.
I swallowed, feeling my muscles tense. I stared at the carpet. “Do you think it was an intruder, or do you think it was Mr. Sampson?”
Parker slid a piece of pizza onto a plate and handed it to me. “You should eat something.”
I rested the plate on the table.
“You think it was Sampson, don’t you?”
Parker turned his back to me, rattling around in my drawers. “Do you have a bottle opener?”
“Answer me.”
Parker’s rattling stopped and he turned, his blue eyes sharp. “I think it was Sampson. And I’m not entirely convinced that Mr. Howard fell on his own. I think Pete Sampson really wants to find you.” Parker slid the plate back toward me. “You really should eat something.”
“I’m too creeped out to eat.”
Parker snaked my plate and swallowed my pizza in one gulp.
“Obviously you’re not.”
He went for a second piece. “I need to keep my strength up. Someone’s got to look after you.”
I glanced up at Parker as he studied the grain on the table.
“I don’t need taking care of,” I told him.
Parker swallowed, then took a long pull of his beer. “Yes, you do. That’s why I’m staying here tonight.”
That familiar anger started to roil again. “Says who?”
“Says me.” He leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet onto the table and reaching for the remote control.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable.” I lifted up Parker’s ankles and dropped his feet to the floor. “Besides, I think I’d rather take my chances with the killer, thank you very much.”
I stood up, holding the front door open, but Parker didn’t move. Instead he just flashed that Cheshire grin and took another swig of his beer.
“You’re spunky,” he said finally. “I like that.”
“I’m not joking, Parker.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “I appreciate your help, but I can take care of myself.” I eyed the open door. “Thank you for the shooting lessons. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow?”
Parker stood up reluctantly and slid his jacket off.
“Parker!”
“Relax,” he said, striding up to me. “I’m going. But I’m not leaving you unprotected.” Parker took my palm and laid his gun, still warm from his chest, into it. “You know how to shoot and you know how to dial the phone to reach me. I really hope you’ll do the latter.”
I lifted my chin. “Thank you.”
“It’s loaded, so be careful. Put it somewhere safe.”
And then he kissed me.
Parker Hayes closed my hand, pushed my arm to my side, and swept a delicate kiss over my lips.
I wasn’t sure whether to shoot him or tear off his clothes.
I wanted to be indignant and angry and feminist, but he smelled so good, like cut grass, campfire, and soap, and his lips were so dizzyingly soft. By the time I had finished arguing with myself, he was gone.
I shut the door, shuddered at the gun in my hand, and tossed it into the freezer for safekeeping.
I spent a full two minutes watching Eric Estrada sell swampland before I speed-dialed Nina. “Hey,” I yelled when she picked up, “where are you? Is Vlad with you?”
“Huh?” I could hear the thump of bass, the tink of glasses, and a rumble of laughter in the background. “Sophie? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”
I pushed out my bottom lip and sniffed. “Can you come home? I’m scared.”
I heard the phone fumble, and then the tink and rumble were quiet. “Sorry about that—it’s so loud in here,” Nina said. “Now what were you saying?”
I could feel my lip begin to quiver, the familiar warmth rising in my throat. “Mr. Howard is dead.”
“Oh. Well, Sophie, Mr. Howard was like, a hundred and three. He was kind of on his way out.”
“No, Nina, he was murdered! Well, not exactly murdered, murdered. He fell down the stairs.”
I could practically hear Nina’s eyebrow rise. “So he was murdered by stairs?”
“Nina!” I paused, considering. “Where are you? Have you or Vlad been home yet tonight?”
“No,” Nina said, stretching out the word. “I haven’t. I went straight from UDA out with that werevamp that came in for his relocation papers last week.”
“You didn’t even come home to change?”
“I should have. His stupid claws messed up the beadwork on my brand-new Maggie Sottero. I’ve been leaving a trumpet-bead trail wherever I go. And Vlad met up with some equally moody friends around nine, so I don’t think he’s been around the house either.” Nina paused. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to make sure you both were okay.”
“Do you still want me to come home?”
I blew out a long sigh. “No. I guess I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t worry, Soph. I won’t be long, I promise.”
When I opened my eyes I could see nothing but blackness. I pushed down my cocoon of covers and glared at the glowing red numbers on my digital clock: 3:17. I snuggled back down against my pillow when I heard it: a gentle scraping against the wall, then the sound of—fingernails?—something tapping against my bedroom window.
“Nina? Vlad?” I called. “Nina, is that you?”
No answer.
I pushed off my blankets and padded into the living room but stopped short, standing in the doorway. The living room was silent, bathed in darkness. The scraping sound started again as did the incessant thump of my heart. I hurried to the kitchen, snatching my frozen gun out from between a box of icecream bars and vegan corn dogs.
“Nina?” I hissed again. “So help me, I’m going to shoot a hole in your undead head if you don’t come out here and stop scaring the crap out of me!”
The scraping stopped, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
And then I heard my bedroom window being pushed open.
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I whispered, sinking to my knees on the linoleum. I crawled around, gun thawing in my hand, vowing to install telephones in every room of the house from here on out.
I winced, hearing my blinds clatter, the trinkets on my windowsill falling as someone climbed through. “Ohhh …” My teeth started to chatter and I pushed myself up, clamping both my hands on the butt of the gun, just the way Parker had shown me.
I heard someone bumping around in my room, and I took a tiny step, inching myself closer to the phone.
Step. Inch. Step.
The gun bobbed in my hands, and I tried to grip it more tightly, the cold from the frozen steel and my own warm sweat making my palms itch. I was within reaching distance for the phone when I was startled by the sudden silence and then a deep, low breathing. I glanced up, seeing the shrouded figure hunched in the doorway. I stepped back, steeled myself, and leveled the gun. I felt the power roil through me as my fingers inched toward the trigger. I clamped my eyes shut and wrenched my mouth open, letting out a wailing howl as I pulled back and launched. I opened my eyes just enough to see the dark figure over the barrel of the gun as he tore back toward the window, hurling himself over my table and scraping the windowsill before he disappeared into the darkness.
My legs felt rubbery and hot; I sank onto the carpet and crab-crawled into my bedroom. I chanced a glance out the window, but there was nothing below. Whoever had broken in was long gone. So I clamped the window
