“Don’t worry; it’s absence of evidence again,” Candace said. “It’s not what he said; it’s how he reacted. Unfortunately, Rufus running off scared isn’t enough evidence.”
“Maybe not, but the man’s dead, isn’t he?” I said.
“Oh, he is that. Yes indeed.”
Once I was feeling calmer, Candace and I made a run for my minivan with her holding the yellow coat over my head to protect me. That was an exercise in futility. This downpour bordered on torrential, and every square inch of me was now sopping wet again. Before Candace closed my van door, I heard her mumble that the rain was screwing up her crime scene.
I drove home thankful I didn’t have to hang around and talk to Chief Baca or, even worse, to Lydia. I’d already been worried about how I’d react to seeing her after sharing that kiss with Tom. And we’d definitely shared. I feared Lydia would know the minute she looked into my eyes that Tom and I had crossed that line between friendship and… well, whatever came next.
As I pulled into my driveway, I didn’t see Kara’s car, and then I realized I hadn’t left her a key or the alarm code. Maybe she’d come back and left again when she couldn’t get inside. Or maybe her meeting with Tom was a long one. He could have already put her to work installing security cameras at some fancy house on the lake or had her doing some mundane task like answering the phone at his home office.
Merlot and Syrah greeted me when I came in the back door. Their little noses twitched with interest as I bent to pet them. They were immediately intrigued by my being very, very wet. Since I figured Kara would be home any time, I left the back door unlocked and the alarm disengaged.
I hurried into the living room after abandoning my leather sandals. My favorite sandals. The rain had just cost me about seventy- five bucks. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV before heading down the hallway. Merlot and Syrah darted ahead as I pulled my soaked T-shirt over my head. I stripped off the rest of my clothes in the bathroom.
Merlot and Syrah tentatively approached the sodden pile on the floor while I stepped into the shower, ready for a good steam cleaning. I stayed under the friendly water-so much kinder than rain-until my fingers shriveled. By the time I got out, the cats had disappeared.
After I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and blow-dried my hair, I gathered my wet clothes and a few other pieces of dirty laundry. Time to visit the washer and then see what was going on with Chablis, Dame Wiggins and the kittens.
But I never made it past the living room.
I gasped and dropped the clothes the second I walked into the room.
A black-clad person, ski mask and all, sat on my couch holding my precious Merlot.
Fifteen
“W-what are you doing in my house?” Dumb thing to say. But there are no adequate words for a situation that made fear and dread do flip-flops in my stomach.
I focused on my cat and saw that the man was holding Merlot’s scruff with a gloved hand. Merlot would have scratched his eyes out, would have been yowling, if not for that near-death grip.
My heart pounded against my ribs. Someone was sitting in my living room dressed in a Halloween disguise. And he did not likely have my best interests in mind. But all I cared about at this moment was Merlot.
“Dried off now, Jillian?” the man said in a harsh whisper.
Merlot squirmed, and he tightened his hold. He was now pulling so hard, my cat’s eyes were drawn into near slits.
That got my Irish up.
Four quick strides and I reached the couch. The man started to rise, but I snatched Merlot before he could fully react, and then I gently tossed my cat in the direction of the hall. “Go, baby. Run.”
But I had to turn to send him on his way, and the man took this opportunity to grab my right arm and bend it behind my back. Then he put a forearm around my upper chest. “You’re the one I wanted anyway,” he said into my ear. He twisted me around and practically threw me down on the sofa.
I raised my chin and stared into the only feature I could see-his pale blue eyes. I would remember those eyes, maybe for the rest of my life. But the remainder of my life might only be a few minutes.
I quelled my fear enough to sound brave when I said, “My stepdaughter will be here any minute, and she’ll call 911. I suggest you get out of my house while you have the chance.”
“You’re telling me what to do? I don’t think so.” He reached into his pocket and took out several zip ties. “Where’s your cell phone?”
“Gee, I must have misplaced it.” Anger was trumping fear right now, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
He dropped the zip ties, grabbed me by both arms and lifted me up so roughly that my bare feet actually left the floor.
I bent my knee, ready to plant it where he’d hurt for a long time. But he set me down and held me back with long, strong arms. I never had a chance to make contact.
He switched one hand to my throat and said, “Try that again, and I will really hurt you. Understand?”
He was choking off my air, and within seconds my lungs began to burn. I nodded, and he released the pressure but kept his hand around my neck.
“Your phone?” he said.
I glanced down and nodded right, toward my jeans pocket.
He used his free hand to reach in and take it. Then he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it with the heel of his boot.
Black leather boots. Remember that, Jillian.
“I’m lowering you to the floor. Sit down and don’t fight me.” He knelt as I slowly went down and said, “Put your wrists together in front of you.”
The hand encircling my throat tightened again, so I quickly complied. After picking up a zip tie, he used one hand to slip it around both wrists and tighten it-almost like he’d done this a hundred times.
Well practiced. Done this before. Remember that, Jillian. Once my hands were bound, he let go of my neck. I felt tears stinging behind my eyes and wanted to gulp in air, but I wasn’t about to let him see weakness. I willed back those tears and steadied my breathing. Then I glanced left and caught Syrah peeking around the corner of the sofa.
No. I wanted to scream. Get away from here.
My attacker was zip tying my ankles and finished just as Syrah started to slink toward the man.
Hoping to distract my captor, I said, “Tell me what this is about.”
Unfortunately this guy hadn’t missed Syrah’s approach. He lunged toward my cat, but my nimble friend was too quick. He raced across the room and then slowly sat. He offered one giant open-mouthed hiss at the bad guy.
I could have lifted both legs and kicked the intruder, but I was sure it wouldn’t do any good. He’d proven he was powerful enough to control me with one hand, and if I pissed him off, he might take revenge on one or more of the cats. I stayed still.
The man stared at me. “What do I want? I want you to stay out of this business.”
This business? What exactly is this business? The murders?
He leaned close until our faces were only inches apart. His breath was clean, but the scent on his skin-from his shaving cream, maybe?-was distinctive. Citrus? Lime?
Remember that, Jillian.
“Your cats are mine if I want them,” he said. “All of them. Even that brood downstairs. I’ll let you keep them today. But only if you go back to making your little quilts and quit showing up where you don’t belong. You shouldn’t be keeping domesticated animals in the first place.”
Uh-oh, I thought. Was he a radical activist? That’s what he sounded like.
He stood and made a quick sidestep toward Syrah, but again my cat was too quick and avoided capture. But Syrah didn’t leave the room. He slowly sat again near the foyer entrance, the tip of his tail twitching, ears flat
