Inside the house, the mother-Ms. Gina Harper, divorced-stood and stretched.
The older girl, a teenager, yawned and slowly rose from the couch. The younger girl, five or six with dark, curly pigtails, protested. Gina Harper picked her up, tickled her, and carried her from the room. The older girl glanced in his direction, an odd look on her face, then gathered up the popcorn bowls and soda cans, turned off the lights, and followed her mother and sister.
His heart beat double-time at the thought that she’d sensed him. That somehow she knew her fate.
That she would be the next to die.
But of course she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t even known he stood on the brick patio outside the family room door. He’d prepared carefully.
This time there would be one minor deviation from the book, but it was one he was sure the author would appreciate.
CHAPTER 7
Rowan slept in fits and starts, her emotions raw. The nightmare stayed with her even when her eyes were open, and it didn’t just concern the Franklin family murder. Evils older than four years tried to push themselves into her conscious memory; she had to fight aggressively to keep them at bay. In doing so, she developed a pounding, mind-numbing headache.
She downed two prescription-strength Motrin and went downstairs. Michael sat at the dining room table reading papers in a file.
“What’s that?”
He looked up, frowned, and closed the file. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” He obviously wasn’t going to tell her about the file. She imagined it had something to do with the murder of the florist, or poor Doreen Rodriguez. She didn’t need to see the file, having already pictured the murders in her imagination.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
She shook her head. Eating had never been important to her; during stressful times, she often forgot. “I want to run.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t care.”
The doorbell rang and she jumped. Since when had the normalcy of everyday life scared her? She pulled her Glock from its holster and held it ready.
Michael drew his own weapon, motioning for her to wait in the kitchen.
He looked through the peephole. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Speedy Courier Service with a package for Rowan Smith.”
“Who sent it?”
The man checked his log. “Harper.”
Rowan peered around the corner, thought for a second, then shrugged at Michael’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Leave the package on the doorstep.”
“I need a signature.”
“Hold on a minute.” Michael backed away from the door. He motioned for Rowan to stay where she was, then walked past her and out the side door.
She anxiously waited, distracted for a moment by the fact that he’d already made a pot of coffee. She poured herself a tall, black mug and sipped.
When he came back, he locked up, set the alarm again, and checked out the package while wearing gloves. Rowan watched from across the table.
“It looks okay.” He glanced at her for confirmation.
She crossed into the dining room, put the mug down, and drew on the pair of latex gloves Michael handed her.
The package was light, probably not even half a pound. She put it to her ear; silence. She looked at all the seams, but none appeared to contain a hidden trigger. It would be difficult to send a bomb through a courier unless it was on a timer; packages were tossed about haphazardly, and there were no markings that this was fragile.
“It’s fine,” she concurred. She started to open the package and Michael stopped her.
“Let me.”
Reluctantly, she put the package down and stepped back, balling her hands into fists. She hated being protected.
She watched Michael’s hands cautiously work open the package, her heart beating fast, angry with herself that this delivery created an undercurrent of fear. The box inside the plain brown wrapping was white, a simple unmarked gift box the size of a videocassette. A single piece of tape sealed the edge. Michael broke it with his finger and pulled off the lid.
Two bright red ribbons, tied in bows around locks of dark, curly hair. Human hair. As if two pigtails had been cut off, preserved by a loving mother after her daughter’s first big-girl haircut. Saved by a mother not wanting her little girl to grow up.
Red ribbons, dark hair.
No. No, not again.
Dani.
Tears silently streamed down Rowan’s cheeks as she stared at the open box in Michael’s hands. Deep sadness etched every crease of her face.
“Rowan?” He put the box on the table and stepped toward her. “Rowan?” He put his finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his.
The raw pain in her face threw him for a loop. He had never seen such expressive eyes in his life, and they were filled with such agony.
“What does this mean?” He peered carefully at the contents to make sure he wasn’t missing something. Dark hair tied in red ribbons. He put it down on the table, took her by the arms. She was shaking and he pulled her close. “Talk to me, Rowan. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
“Dani,” she croaked into his chest.
“Who’s Danny?”
She didn’t answer. Michael picked her up and carried her to the couch, where he held her in his lap and rocked her back and forth for several long minutes until her sobs turned to crying, her crying to whimpering, and then complete stillness. Somehow, the silence was the worst.
She’d buried her face in his chest. Michael pushed her back. “Rowan, trust me. You have to trust me.”
She looked into his eyes, searching for what? Honesty? Trust? He didn’t know. Her lips trembled, and he put a finger on their red fullness. “Trust me,” he whispered.
She swallowed. “I-I-” She stopped, her voice hoarse.
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. She needed him. This strong, independent woman needed him, and he was filled with intense longing and desire. Every protective instinct he had was focused on her, and he half fell in love right then.
He pulled her tightly to him. “What? Tell me.”
“I-I can’t.” Her voice came out a croak.
He turned her face to his, searching her eyes, her mouth, the worry lines on her forehead. Her lips quivered. He desperately wanted to kiss her, to show her that he could protect her, that he would always be here for her.
He couldn’t kiss her. She was too vulnerable, too needy. But damn, he wanted to taste those quivering red lips, soothe the pain on her face. If only she would let him in.
