CHAPTER 1

One month later ...

The car jerked as though possessed.

I inhaled sharply, holding onto the breath as tightly as Igripped the smooth wood railing with one hand and my garbagebag with the other. I peered down from the landing onthe floor below my apartment at the car parked closest to thebuilding.

My heart drummed a monster cadence that pounded on theblood vessels behind my eyes, causing pinpoint stars to float infront of my vision. Was I really seeing this or had I not hadenough coffee yet this morning?

Yes. It was no flashback from my days of old. The car stillshook.

A warm summer breeze drifted across my skin as I continuedto stare down at the vehicle. I shivered. I wasn't cold. Itwas fear.

What was I, an idiot? I had to will my foot to descend tothe next step. At the moment, my feet were apparently smarterthan I was. They knew danger. A smart person would turnaround and go back upstairs, through the apartment and downthe front stairs. But no, I apparently didn't emanate from thatsmart gene pool. If something could be considered dangerousor reckless, my name was probably attached somewhere.

My dear mom, God rest her soul, always said, "Fools rushin where angels fear to tread."

Yeah, let's not mention that angels must have practicedrunning for the clouds every time the name Sloane Templetoncame up as an assignment. I had a knack for turning them intoa bruised and battered little fife-and-drum corps, completewith head bandages and crutches.

A woman's screech echoed from the closed interior of thecar.

I gasped and stumbled back against the step, raking my calfon the unyielding wood. I winced. As I tried to steady myself,my left hand lost its grip on the garbage bag I was carrying. Itrolled down the rest of the stairs in slow motion and ploppedbeside the Dumpster.

I stared at it. That's one way to get it down there.

An animal-like howl rolled though the air. I stiffened.

Lord, help me! She's being attacked.

There was an innocent woman in there. Call the police!Why didn't I think of it five minutes ago? I felt my pockets.No cell phone, just my gun in one pocket, and keys in theother. I must have left the phone downstairs on my desk in thebookstore last night. Figures, I never have it when I need it.

A muffled scream.

Electric fear zipped up my spine. My brain ticked off theoptions. Up the stairs and down the front. Shudder. Pass thecar and around to the front. Either way, to get to a phone wasgoing to take time that might rob this woman of her life. I hadto do something now. I was the only one here.

How? Don't be stupid! I have a gun in my pocket. Yeah, butI've never confronted another person with my weapon. This iscrazy and reckless. I could be overpowered. They could takemy gun and shoot me.

A moan. Banging. Another scream.

No! I have to do something. Now!

With a trembling hand, I pulled the registered .38 from thepocket of my baggy linen trousers. Against my wishes, Momhad badgered me until I accepted her transferring the weaponto me right before her passing. Her excuse was that I neededprotection as a store owner in our crime-ridden area. AlthoughI didn't have a clue about what crime she was referring to, I didhave a good guess about the criminals. This was a new day, andfear was not going to create any more victims around me thanI could help.

As I pulled the gun from my pants, the thumb hammersnagged on the top of my pocket, flipping the weapon out ofmy shaking hand. I lunged for it. Fingers clawed at empty air.Agh!

I flinched as it hit the step, expecting the gun to dischargeand shoot me in my smarter-than-me foot.

The weapon tumbled down two more treads of the woodenstaircase, and spun to the edge, hanging there for a split secondbefore continuing its descent. It bounced down another step,spun a couple more times, and came to rest with the barrelfacing in my direction. It mocked me as though I was playingspin the bottle. Tag ... you're it!

A woman's pleading voice resonated from the shaking car.

My first instinct was to leave the gun right where it lay andrun away. But my inner warrior wouldn't let me back away.

I ran down the few steps and snatched up the snub-nosedgun. The cool metal was foreign in my clammy fingers. Why inthe world did I think I could be like my fearless ma, brandishinga weapon, when I'd never held anything more deadly thannail clippers?

I pulled in a sharp breath to calm my teeth-rattling jitters.If I didn't go now, reason would take over. I charged down thestairs. Vaulting over the garbage bag, I snuck up to the passengerside of the car and yanked on the door handle, almostpulling my arm from its socket. The door didn't yield.

Locked. Great! Now in addition to a skinned leg, I had athrobbing shoulder.

The windows dripped foggy moisture on the inside, maskingthe interior. I couldn't see a thing.

The woman needed my help. I suddenly summoned an inordinateamount of bravery and slapped my hand on the glasswith the same authority Officer Murphy had used on the carTim Owens and I were in when I was eighteen. "Open thedoor!"

I stepped back, sucked in a breath, and imagined the worst,waiting for the attacker to launch from the car, and not havingthe least clue of what I would do. Instead ... silence. Nothing.No answer. Touching the side of the car, I could feel thethumping. It imitated pounding feet.

"Let her go or I'll break this window!"

How? By shooting it out? Bad idea. No shooting when youcan't see what you're shooting at.

The cries ceased as the vehicle stopped trembling. A handswiped across the glistening fog inside the window and a wide-eyedfemale face appeared.

"Are you okay? Open the door." I grabbed for the handleagain, then let go. What if some big angry dude charged me?

A lock clicked.

I backed away. The door didn't open.

I tamped down my fear, backed up another step, and raisedthe weapon like I knew what I was doing. Holding it with onehand cupped in the other, I rested my trembling finger alongthe trigger guard.

"Open the door now. Let her out."

The door opened a hair.

I lunged and snatched the handle, jerking it open all theway. "Come out with—"

I was staring down at a middle-aged woman with sleep-encrustedeyes and chestnut brown hair haphazardly pulled upin a claw clip.

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the gun. She wrappedher arms around her head. "Please don't shoot me!"

A whimper escaped her throat as she pulled her feet up ontothe seat and tucked her knees against her chest.

I glanced around the inside of the car as the thick moist airclung to my face like a mask. I half expected to see water drippingfrom the headliner.

The woman was alone.

I lowered the gun to my side. Relief. "It's all right. I'm notgoing to hurt you. I heard you scream and thought you werebeing attacked. This neighborhood isn't the safest of places."

The woman dropped her arms. "I'm sorry." She rubbedher hands across her eyes like a little child. "I was having anightmare."

"Nightmare? Were you in my parking lot all night?" Witha solid feeling of averted-disaster relief, I slipped the .38 backinto my pocket. The added weight pulled on the drawstringcinched tightly at my waist. I could feel the cool metal againstmy leg.

The woman's eyes darted around as though she was lookingfor an avenue of escape. "I...