Lifeless. Could this be a picture of Joel’s twin? And could that be the other man who showed up at the house the day of the murders?
She shoved the picture in her back pocket. Sure that Sam would know, or maybe Rachelle, she focused her attention on the massive amount of junk that had been tossed across the wood floor.
What had they hoped to find? Could it have been teenagers? Knowing the history of the house, maybe they thought trashing her house was a great way to spend their day? She knew that kids did this kind of thing for kicks, but it was a huge risk given the presence of the media vultures lurking outside like shadows. Had that been part of the challenge? The thrill of not getting caught? She could go on with a thousand different scenarios, and not a single one would help her in getting the house back in some kind of order.
She had boxed up most of the clothes when she realized that Sam had been gone longer than thirty minutes. She had assumed that Jill still lived in the same house in Whiskey Creek, south of here. It used to take her about fifteen minutes to drive there, ten extra if you were caught behind a school bus. Then it hit her. It was December. Prime tourist season for the Sunshine State. It would take at least half an hour to get to Jill’s house. She felt better knowing the traffic was probably bumper-to-bumper. Plus, if he drove downtown to her office, he’d be at least another hour.
These were the issues of daily life that she hadn’t had to deal with in prison. In prison, you did what you were told to do—nothing more and nothing less. She had lived by the rules of the prison, and maybe she would have to live out the rest of her life and die by those rules, but negotiating, planning, gauging driving times—these were things she would have to get used to, assuming that Sam was right and she would avoid being returned to prison, that she could live the rest of her life as a free woman.
This was only the third day she was away from prison, yet it was beginning to feel like her life in prison belonged to someone else. Still, adjusting to the day-to-day activities of normal life was going to take some time.
She hated the word adjusting. That’s what they called acclimating to your situation in prison. In reverse. Prisoners adjusted to their new seven-foot-by-ten-foot living quarters. They adjusted to every-other-day showers. They adjusted to lights out at the same time every evening. She prayed she wouldn’t have to return to that hellhole. She had made no friends in prison; though a few of the convicts had tried to befriend her, she wasn’t stupid. She knew what went on when the lights were turned out. And she swore to herself that she would never allow herself to be victimized for however long she was there, and in ten years, she hadn’t succumbed to participating in the nighttime passion that most inmates engaged in.
Her thoughts were careening all over the place when she thought she heard a noise downstairs. She stopped what she was doing and went to stand by the door of the master bedroom. Nothing. Probably her imagination. She turned around and was ready to go back into the room to do more cleaning when she heard the noise again.
She paused just outside the master bedroom door, waiting.
Footsteps. That was what she had heard. Someone was making crunching sounds as they walked over the broken dishes in the kitchen. The phone was in the kitchen. Damn. She inched her way past the bedroom’s entrance but kept close to the wall. She waited, careful not to bump into anything. Again, she heard footsteps walking over broken glass. Whoever it was, they were trying to be quiet.
They knew she was alone in the house.
Tessa dared to ease away from the wall where, if she could lean far enough, she could see past the wall into the kitchen. Stretching as far as she could without falling, she saw a pair of feet clad in black boots. Obviously, it was a man.
Wishing she had kept Sam’s cell phone, she tried to remember if there was a phone jack in Poppy’s or Piper’s room. Not that it would matter since the portable phone she had had was crushed in a pile downstairs, most likely by her intruder.
She watched the black-boots-clad feet move around in the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth; then the man stopped walking and stood still. Tessa could tell by the position of the boots that the man was now facing in her direction. She practically mashed herself into the wall.
The man just stood there. Had she made a noise? No, she was being very careful. She listened, then stretched out a second time for another look.
She could not see him anywhere in the kitchen. The booted man was gone.
Or he was in another room.
Her heart rate quadrupled. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck.
Think. Think. Think. I have to get out of this house!
This place was evil; she could feel it in her bones.
There. A noise. She heard it again.
Afraid to chance a look, she tried to place where the sounds were coming from.
The hallway.
Her bedroom.
Had the son of a bitch forgotten something? Had he returned to steal her clothes?
Suddenly, it occurred to her she had only one chance, to race down the stairs to the kitchen, where the phone was.
If only he stayed in the bedroom long enough.
Or should I stay put? Wait for Sam?
No! Sam could die! Whoever it was could kill him when he came into the house.
She wouldn’t let another person she cared for die.
Never.
She strained to hear.
Yes!
He is still in my room.
For now.
Carefully, she removed her ankle boots. One, then the other.
If she kept
