“What about Ollie?”
“Maitland couldn’t get hold of him. It’s okay. I’ll see you at the gym in an hour and a half, tops. You be careful.” He kissed her, patted her cheek, and watched her walk to her own car. He watched her lock the car doors, then wave at mm.
The night was seamless black, no stars showing, only a sliver of moon. It was cold. Lacey turned on the car heater and the radio to a country-western station. She found herself humming to “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”
She’d have to ask Dillon to sing that one to her. Her town house was dark. She frowned. She was certain she’d left on the foyer light that lit up the front-door area. Well, maybe not. It seemed as though she’d been gone for much longer than a week. She supposed she might as well rent the place out, furnished. She’d have to call some realtors to see how much would be appropriate to ask. Why had Douglas been leaning over her mother, kissing her, talking to her as if she were his lover?
She knew this was one question she’d never be able to ask her mother. And Douglas had denied it was true. She wondered if all families were as odd as hers. No, that just wasn’t possible. Not all families had had a child murdered.
She wasn’t humming anymore when she slid the key into the dead bolt and turned it. She was wishing she were at the gym. She wished he were throwing her to the mat when she turned the lock and pushed the front door open. She felt for the foyer light, flipped it on. Nothing happened.
No wonder. The miserable lightbulb had burned out. It had been one of those suckers guaranteed for seven years. She had replacement lightbulbs in the kitchen. She walked through the arch into the living room and found the light switch. Nothing happened.
Her breathing hitched. No, that was ridiculous. It had to be the circuit breaker and that was in the utility closet off the kitchen, with more of those seven-year-guaranteed lightbulbs. She walked slowly toward the kitchen, past the dining area, bumping into a chair she’d forgotten about, then felt the cool kitchen tile beneath her feet. She reached automatically for the light switch.
Nothing happened. Of course.
Little light slipped in through the large kitchen window. A black night; that’s what it was. Seldom was it so black.
“Technology,” she said, making her way across the kitchen. “Miserable, unreliable technology.” “Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?”
She was immobile with terror for a fraction of a second until she realized that she’d been trained not to freeze, that freezing could get you killed, and she whipped around, her fist aimed at the man’s throat. But he was shorter than she was used to. Her fist glanced off his cheek. He grunted, then backhanded her, sending her against the kitchen counter. She felt pain surge through her chest. She was reaching for her SIG even as she was falling.
“Don’t even think about doing something that stupid,” the man said. “It’s real dark in here for you but not for me. I’ve been used to the dark for a real long time. You just slide on down to the floor and don’t move or else I’ll just have to blow off that head of yours and all that pretty red hair will get soaked with brains.”
He kicked the SIG out of her hand. A sharp kick, a well-aimed kick, a trained kick. She still had her Lady Colt strapped to her ankle. She eased down, slowly, very slowly. A thief, a robber, maybe a rapist. At least he hadn’t killed her yet.
“Boy, turn on the lights.”
In the next moment the house was flooded with light. She stared at the old man who stood a good three feet away from her, a carving knife held in his right hand. He was well dressed, shaved, clean. He was short and thin, like the knife he was holding.
He was Erasmus Jones.
The boy came into her vision. It was Martin.
They weren’t in Ohio. They were both right there, in her kitchen.