“Hello, Mom. You sound great. How do you feel?”
“I’m hungry, but Nurse Heinz won’t get me anything from the kitchen. I’d like some chocolate chip cookies. You always liked chocolate chip cookies when you were small, I remember.”
“I remember too, Mom.”
“Don’t try to catch the man who murdered Belinda. He’s too dangerous. He’s insane, he’ll kill you and I couldn’t bear that. He’s-”
The line went dead, then the familiar dial tone.
The phone rang again immediately. It was her father. “I’m sorry, Lacey. I was so agitated that I dropped the phone. Listen, I’m scared. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I understand, but I must try to catch him. I must.”
She heard him sigh. “I know. Be careful.”
“I will.” She looked at the receiver a moment, then gently laid it back in its cradle. She looked at the lovely Bentrell paintings on the stretch of white wall. Landscapes-rolling hills, some grazing cows, a small boy with a bucket on either end of a pole, carried across his back and balanced over his shoulders. She slowly lowered her face into her hands and cried. She saw her father’s face from seven years ago, silent and still, no expression at all, just the silence of the grave, and he’d leaned down and whispered very softly in her ear, just after Belinda’s funeral, when she’d been so blank, so hollow, but not quite yet utterly terrified, “It’s over, thank the good Lord. You’ll survive, Lacey. She was only your half sister, try to remember that.”
And she’d just stared at him as if he were crazier than her mother. Only her half sister? That was supposed to mean something? It had only been three days later when the first nightmare had come in the deep of the night and her grief had become terror.
When the doorbell rang, she nearly shrieked, memories from the past overlaying the present. It was the doorbell, that was all, just the doorbell. Still, where was her gun? She looked frantically around the living room. There was her purse. She always carried her Lady Colt in her purse, in addition to the holster with her SIG.
She grabbed it, feeling its cold smoothness caress her hand like a lover even as the doorbell sounded again. She moved to stand beside the door.
“Sherlock? You there? Come on, I see the lights. Open the damned door!”
She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.
He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She’d seen male models in magazines dressed like that-with the knotted sweater-and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn’t on him. He was frowning at her.
He stepped inside, still frowning. “That’s quite a display of gadgets you’ve got on that door. A strong guy, though, could just kick it in.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She lowered the gun to her side, still saying nothing. She would have to reinforce the door. No, she was being absurd.
He closed the door behind him. “I wanted to see if you were furnished yet,” he said, and walked into the living room. He looked around at the very expensive furnishings, then whistled. “The FBI must pay you too much. When did you get all this stuff, Sherlock?”
He was acting as though nothing was wrong. He was acting as though she was normal. She was normal. She gently laid her Lady Colt on the lamp table beside the sofa. “I’m not much of a shopper, and Sally Quinlan had to cancel out on me. I just called an interior designer in Georgetown and told him what I wanted and needed in place before my boss found out. He took care of it. Really fast.”
He turned slowly to look at her. “As I said, we must pay you too much.”
“No, I have a trust fund. Normally I don’t ever dip into it. I don’t need to, but I wanted this place furnished and I didn’t want to take the time to do the shopping myself. I knew you’d keep after me until I at least got a sofa.”