When Jessica had left, her little sister had been a chubby-cheeked thirteen-year-old, with a lingering childishness and an angelic innocence that fooled ninety percent of the people she met. The woman in the photo looked neither childish nor innocent. Though she wore a pleasant half smile, her features held hardness, hinting at a life that had knocked her around and the barriers that had gone up as a result.
What had happened? What could be so bad that she believed she had nothing to live for? Why does anyone take her own life?
Jessica set the frame back on the table and kicked a pillow aside. Two bedrooms awaited her down the hall, likely in the same shape as the other rooms. She stopped at the first open doorway and slouched against the jamb. No, this was much worse.
It was the room she’d shared with Priscilla, the furnishings frozen in time—the twin beds and their whitewashed headboards, the chest with five drawers, three of which Prissy had managed to claim, and the mismatched vanity, which Prissy had taken over from day one. They’d always had to share a room, and Jessica had hated every minute of it.
The mess made the space almost unrecognizable. Every dresser drawer had been pulled out, clothes scattered from one end of the room to the other. The contents of the closet contributed to the disarray. Cloth-covered hangers, even a pair of crutches, jutted up from the chaos at odd angles.
The chill she’d felt on entering the living room returned with a vengeance. She needed to call the police. She moved down the hall and had just reached the living room when a muffled squeak sounded from around the corner. Like the rubber sole of a tennis shoe against tile.
She jerked to a stop as every sense shot to full alert. The muscles across her shoulders drew taut, and she held her breath, gaze locked on the wide doorway into the kitchen. For several moments, she listened, straining to hear the slightest sound that would indicate she wasn’t alone.
Another squeak, so soft that, if not for the first, she’d think she’d imagined it. Her heart pounded and her muscles tensed as adrenaline pumped through her body. Someone was in the kitchen. So was her purse, with her phone and a can of pepper spray inside. If she had to defend herself, it would be through hand-to-hand combat. Not her first choice since she knew nothing about her opponent.
A face appeared around the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, then disappeared. She bolted toward the front door. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. She’d never get the door open in time. Her best weapon was the element of surprise. At five foot three and a hundred twenty pounds, no one expected her to pack a hard punch.
Or a devastating kick.
She spun to face him. How had he covered so much ground in such a short time? She raised a knee and thrust outward. Her boot-clad foot contacted his stomach with a thud. The impact sent him flying away from her and onto his rear, but a backward somersault brought him smoothly to his feet.
At least he wasn’t armed. Not that she could see, anyway. She couldn’t vouch for what might be hiding under that black leather jacket.
Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to give him a chance to reach for it. She charged forward. A well-placed kick to the gut doubled him over, but he managed to turn and deflect the majority of the follow-up punch to the face. A steely hand clamped around her wrist, thrusting her forward and flinging her to the floor in front of the entertainment center. Her elbow struck the tile, sending pain shooting through her arm. He hurled himself toward her, but before he could pin her, she was back on her feet, ready with a kick to the chest.
His body slammed backward into the coffee table with the crack of splintering wood and the crash of shattering glass. A final kick should put him down for the count. But she never got the opportunity. In one smooth motion, his hand swept inside his jacket and emerged with a pistol.
“Sit.” His voice was husky. “Over there. On the couch.”
She liked to think at least some of that huskiness was from the blows she’d delivered. For several moments she stood unmoving, except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears and her mind churned. A low crescent kick would probably send the gun flying. It could also get her killed. Not worth taking a chance.
But she wasn’t ready to back down. If he intended to shoot her, he’d have done it already. She lifted her chin. “Who are you?”
He raised himself to a seated position, eying her cautiously. “How about if you talk first, considering I am the one with the gun.” He flashed her a smile that would have appeared amicable without said gun. “Tell me what you’re doing sneaking in here in the middle of the night.”
She stared down at him, trying to size him up. She’d never seen him before. If she had, she would have remembered him. If not the sandy blond hair that fell around his face and neck with careless abandon, then those warm green eyes. Or his perfect white teeth.
He was exactly the type she would have gone for a few years ago—wild and carefree, with just enough bad boy to keep things exciting. But she’d learned her lessons. She wasn’t going there again, well-fitting dress jeans and black leather jacket aside.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to answer me?”
She stared down at him a moment longer, then threw back her head and laughed. She’d known the town of Harmony Grove wouldn’t roll out the welcome mat for her. But she hadn’t expected to be greeted like this, either.
Welcome home.
