"Are you shy?" He came toward me, already unbuckling his belt. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

  I tugged frantically at the wall chain, but the angle was wrong, and even in my panic, I couldn't apply enough force.

  He reached for me, and I scurried back across the mattress, trying to get to my feet. He gripped the chain dangling between my feet and dragged me back down. My skull rebounded off the concrete floor so hard that my vision blurred. His pants hit the floor with a thump.

  "I really don't think," was all I managed before he was on me. There was something like a second where I contemplated not fighting him, on letting him do what he wanted to me so he wouldn't hurt me or worse, kill me. But my temper got hold of the reins, anger overpowering the fear.

  "Get off of me," I wheezed, struggling beneath his massive weight.

  He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head sharply, and those fleshy lips bounced off of one cheek. His fingers were at my waistband, struggling with my zipper. I fought harder, frantically, pummeling him with my fists. I was a strong woman, but he was immense and had laser-like focus. My jeans gave way, and he started shoving them down.

  One hand still held the crystal nail file, and I didn't think as I jabbed it up into the side of his neck. He reared back. The pain must have overcome his lust. I kicked out with both feet, aiming for his gut. He went down, the scream cut off by his own breathless state.

  Adrenaline pumping, I dove for the toilet, my fingers closing around the heavy ceramic lid of the tank. I heard him behind me, coming for me, and I swung with all my might, a scream of outrage ripping from my chest.

  Frankie crumpled to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. Overhead footsteps sounded, followed by a key.

  I didn't even hesitate as I ran for the ring in the wall. My hands shook, the palms slick with sweat. Lacing my fingers between the links to secure the grip, I pulled with all my might. The ring shifted. My mental mantra was clear and simple. Got to get out of here. Got to get out of here. Footsteps on the stairs behind me. I put my own foot on the wall and heaved with every iota of strength I possessed.

  "Stop!" Yvonne shouted a second before the ring gave way, and I flew back into her. We both went down, her breaking my fall somewhat. Something went clattering into the darkness. Blood roared in my ears, but I thought I heard some sort of pounding overhead.

  "Bitch!" She struck at me, trying to shove me off her. I had six inches and a whole lot of pounds to my advantage, especially considering my chains. Plus, I was in no hurry to help her in any way. She wriggled, kneeing me in the kidney, and I curled up like a shrimp. She shoved, but I recovered quickly and threw my bound wrists over her head, the chain catching her in the neck.

  She fought wildly, clawing at my arms, the chain, anything she could reach. I held fast, a sick sort of delight filling me at watching her struggle.

  "Mackenzie, stop."

  I looked up, my eyes meeting familiar blue ones. "You don't know…"

  "I do." Brett took a step closer. "You're killing her. Please, just let her go."

  I shook my head. He didn't understand. Couldn't. "They're sick, both of them."

  "I know. The police are on their way. They'll both go to jail."

  I didn't have possession of myself, couldn't explain to him or even to myself, why I couldn't release her. The terror I'd experienced in that basement still rode me hard.

  "You're not a murderer. You can't come back from this. Trust me."

  I was breathing hard, my heart pounding.

  Brett took another step hand outstretched. "Please. Mac needs you."

  Those were the magic words. I swallowed once and then relaxed the pressure on the chain, hands shaking. All the fight had gone out of Yvonne, and she fell straight down, landing on her hands and knees, gasping.

  I fell too, forward, into Brett's arms. Overhead someone called out, "This is the police."

  "I've got you, babe," he said, rubbing my back. "It's okay. You're safe now."

  I shook wildly as if I was about to fall apart then and there. His hands rubbed up and down my back, holding me tight. There was a clatter of footsteps overhead, coming toward the stairs, and then a familiar voice barked the order, "Gun, get down!"

  I didn't think, just responded to the command in Hunter's voice, dragging Brett with me to the floor. A deafening boom, and then the basement flooded with people and light.

  My lids slammed down, the light searing my retinas after hours of almost total darkness. The noise, the crush of people, the unspent adrenaline made me quake all over. I rolled away from Brett and vomited.

  Strong hands held my hair back. "I've got you."

  I peeked over my shoulder, saw the still form of Yvonne, a pistol still clutched in one hand and a neat bullet hole between her open eyes, and heaved once more. That boom had been a gunshot as Hunter fired on her.

  "Are you okay?" Brett crouched down beside me.

  Hunter helped me to my feet, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of my face. "She's going to be fine."

  I met his gaze, nodded once.

  "Take her upstairs." He rose and offered me his hand to help me regain my balance.

  "Outside." After wiping my arm on my sleeve, I met his eyes. "I need out of this house."

  Hunter studied me a moment more and then handed over his keys. "Take her out to my car."

  "She should get checked out by a doctor." Brett was discussing me with Hunter as though I wasn't part of the conversation. Even though I was the main topic.

  "I want to go home." The words didn't pack the forceful punch I'd intended, but at least they were out. And bonus points for not breaking down into tears.

  Hunter studied my face a moment and then nodded. "Get checked by the EMTs first. I'll send an officer to get her statement."

  I didn't track much after that, didn't recall the details of walking out of that basement, back through the kitchen, or out into the snowy January night. I sat numbly in the back of the ambulance, was asked questions I didn't know how to answer. Brett stayed with me the whole time, talking with the EMTs, one hand clutching mine tightly.

  "You said you ingested some sort of drug?" the EMT asked. "When was this?"

  "I'm not sure." I'd lost all track of time. How long had I been in that basement? It felt like a lifetime. "Around seven this morning."

  "I'd recommend going to the hospital, letting them run some tests."

  I shook my head, the motion stirring up the nausea once more. "No way. I'm not giving up more hours of my life for pointless tests."

  "Ma'am," the EMT was young, barely older than my daughter. "It's for your own good. If we don't know what you ingested, the effects—"

  "It hasn't killed me yet. You should see the crap I eat on a regular basis. My system can handle it. Plus, I threw up. Twice."

  It was Brett who offered the solution. "She's been through a traumatic experience. The cops are searching the house. They'll find whatever it was, and then if she needs some sort of treatment, I'll take her to Urgent Care. Good enough?"

  The EMT glowered at us both before relenting. "Fine."

  Though it was a short walk, he loaded me into Hunter's car and drove me away from the house where Hunter had killed a woman he'd once dated. Brett assisted me up the villa's steps, used a set of keys, and let us inside, first the villa and then to our apartment. He guided me to the couch, putting pressure on my shoulders, encouraging me to sit.

  "I'll just go get Mac. She's been worried."

  I gripped his hand hard. "Don't leave me alone in here."

  He knelt down. "The police have him. He's not coming back."

  I shook my head hard, unable to explain how I no longer felt safe in my own home. When I'd been in that basement, all I'd wanted was to get home, but Frankie and Yvonne had done damage. We'd changed the locks, done everything right, and those maniacs had still slithered into our space.

  Brett squeezed my hand. "Okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'll just call her instead."

  I heard him on the phone, and then there was a thundering on the stairs as Mac appeared, Snickers and my mother on her heels. "Mom!"

  Her face was pale, her eyes flooded and ready to overflow. Something about seeing her obvious panic popped the dreamlike bubble and anchored me back to earth. I opened my arms, and she was beside me, squeezing me, telling me how worried she's been.

  "It's okay." I told her. "Everything is going to be okay."

  She let out a sob and squeezed me tighter. It was the right thing to say, even if I didn't totally believe it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Don't let the job consume you. Private investigators have a front row seat to the seedy underbelly of humanity. At the end of the day, it is just a job. Make sure you have something else to go home to, to remind you of who you really are.

  From: The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living

  An unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI.

  "So Snickers pulled a Lassie on us, huh?" I sat on a bar stool, sipping coffee, a towel wrapped around my damp hair, my bare feet peeking out from my purple satin bathrobe. A bag of frozen peas—courtesy of my mother—was pressed against my sore head where I'd bounced it off the floor.

  "Well, sort of," Brett said. "The cops who were watching the house saw her wandering to the back yard and came to the door to let us know. You'd fallen off the radar a few hours earlier. I followed her footprints through the fresh snow back to Yvonne's house."

  Mac poured her own mug of coffee. "I tried tracking your cell phone as soon as we found Helga in the garage with a bag of groceries. I even called Detective Carson and Hunter to let them try." Her face fell, her beloved tech having let her down.

  Brett put a hand on her shoulder. "I saw the hole where Snickers dug her way under the fence. One of them must have let her out not realizing she could get out by herself."

  They'd been too busy arguing over when and how they were going to kill me. I stared into the depths of my coffee mug, keeping the worst parts of my abduction to myself.

  The interview with the police had been bad enough. I'd been expecting Hunter, but two uniformed officers, a short woman and a shorter man, had taken my statement. They'd been thorough and had given me absolutely nothing new to chew on. Only their succinct professional demeanor had gotten me through the retelling.

  "Mom?" Mac put a hand on my arm.

  "I'm good, babycakes." I forced a smile.

  Someone knocked on the apartment door, and Brett slid off his barstool and went to answer it.

  Hunter stood there, and the two men nodded at one another, as though they'd come to some sort of mutual respect. Brett stepped back, allowing Hunter access to me.

  "We found traces of Rohypnol in the trash at the Tates'. We're assuming that's what Yvonne slipped into the cup of decaf she gave you. The good news is that there are no long-term side effects. From the drug, anyway."

  Because obviously, from the way Brett and Hunter were looking at me, other sorts of damage had been done.

  "I don't know if I'm more insulted about the drug or the decaf." I strove for my normal light bantering tone, but it fell flat. "Where did they get the drug?"

  "It was the mother's. Apparently to help her sleep," Hunter said.

  "And where was she the whole time?" Brett asked.

  I swallowed and answered. "According to Frankie, buried in the back yard."

  "Judas Priest," Mac said. "They killed their own mother?"

  "We're not sure of that yet. We'll know more after the autopsy, though decomposition says she's been dead for about two months." Hunter's probing gaze was locked on me.

  "Right around the time Frankie was released from the psychiatric hospital," I guessed.

  "The timeline fits," Hunter said. "The lab found his fingerprints on the frame, as well as a second set not in the database. Frankie's mother institutionalized him at age seventeen after a neighbor accused him of killing her Yorkie."

  Mac hugged Snickers so tightly that the puggle squirmed to get down.

  I shifted, unable to hold Hunter's stare. Though I knew it was ridiculous, I couldn't help feeling as though I'd done something…wrong. "So, did he tell you how they were getting into our apartment?"

  "Your mother's keys."

  Behind him, there was a clatter as Agnes dropped the tray of finger sandwiches she'd just run up to help Nona bring down. "Pardon me?"

  Hunter and Brett bent down to help collect the metal platter and the scattered sandwiches. Mac's hand was in mine. I wasn't sure who reached for whom, but we held on tightly to one another.

  Hunter rose and deposited what remained of the appetizers on the kitchen counter. "You were taking Yvonne's cooking class. Where did you keep your keys?"

  "In my purse, of course." Agnes had gone a little pale. "You mean she took the keys out of my bag?"

  "Probably while you were distracted. She must have passed them to Frankie who went out to have copies made. Then she replaced the keys before the end of class when you would've noticed they were missing. We found the receipt, dated the same day Mike changed the locks. There was no time stamp, but a uniform talked to the shop owner, and he recognized Frankie's photo because he'd been in a hurry."

  "So that's why there was no sign of breaking or entering." Mac loosed another breath.

  "And because Mom has all the keys, they had access to every apartment." My throat had gone dry. I'd left my daughter upstairs, believing she would be safe with my mother.

  Agnes swayed on her feet, and Brett steadied her, guided her over to an empty barstool.

  "Mike's on his way over to change them again," Hunter informed us.

  "I think I'm ready for a security system too," I added.

  "I'll pay for it." Agnes's face was the same ghastly pale shade as her hair. "I think I need to go lie down."

  Mac jumped up. "I'll go with you, Grams."

  I watched them exit, grateful to Mac for looking out for Agnes, because I couldn't. I knew my mother. The guilt would gnaw at her for a while, but eventually she'd bounce back.

  "Speaking of paying for things." Brett cleared his throat, glancing between me and Hunter. "Mac told me you were planning to sell Helga to pay for the remodel."

  I could feel Hunter's probing stare, but looking at him made my throat close up, snakes of guilt squirming in my belly. So I focused on Brett. "That's right, why?"

  "Well, I'd like to pay for the repairs, if you'll let me."

  "You?" I frowned. "Why would you pay for it? You don't even live here."

  His gaze was steady and clear. "No, but my daughter does. I can afford it. Besides, I owe you sixteen years of back child support."

  I wanted to argue, I really did. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I snapped it shut. His offer was decent, and though my pride chafed at the thought of letting him pay for anything, I understood the need he felt to look out for Mac in any way he could.

  Hunter spoke, surprising us both. "I think that sounds like a good idea."

  My head whipped in his direction. "You do?"

  He nodded. "And I'm sure Maureen will handle all your plumbing needs at cost. She feels incredibly guilty."

  "Why would she?" I asked, before remembering it was Maureen who'd set Hunter up with Yvonne in the first place. "Oh."

  "What's going to happen to Frankie?" I hadn't wanted to ask with Mac present in case I broke down.

  Hunter and Brett exchanged a look, and Hunter's fist clenched. "He was taken to the hospital, where he'll receive treatment for his injuries. His doctor will have to determine whether he's fit to stand trial. But either way, he won't be free to come near you again."

  I let out a long breath. That was something, at least.

  No one said anything. I went to take a sip of my coffee, but it had gone cold.

  Brett looked back and forth between the two of us and then slid off his barstool, leaning forward and dropping a kiss on my forehead. "I'm gonna head out, but I'll call later to check on you."

  "Thanks for being my hero," I whispered in his ear.

  "Anytime, pretty lady. Anytime." He chucked me under the chin and then let himself out.

  Hunter's gaze burned me where I sat. Stalling for time, I rose and circled the counter toward the microwave to heat my coffee, even though I doubted the writhing snakes in my stomach would let me drink it.

  "Mackenzie," he said quietly.

  No Red. Clearing my throat, I chucked a thumb in toward the door. "I told you he wasn't a stalker."

  "You did," he acknowledged, his voice deep and even, giving nothing away.

  I laced my fingers together, wrung my hands. How could I make him understand just how much I owed to Brett? "He kept me from killing her. Yvonne, I mean. He showed up just in time."

  "I read the report." His voice sounded flat.

  "It didn't do her much good," I grumbled. Then shocked at my own thoughtlessness, I looked up in time to see his flinch. "Hunter, I didn't mean—"

  He held up a hand. "It's okay, Red."

  "Are you? Okay, I mean." Brett had saved me, but fate had passed the burden of killing Yvonne Tate from me to Hunter. It registered that he needed something from me, and that need grounded me so I wouldn't float off into a sea of despair.

  He looked down at his hands. "I'm not sure. Though I've had to discharge my weapon, I've never killed anyone in the line of duty before, never mind someone I knew. Or a woman."

  I couldn't tell which part was harder for him to bear. The fact that he knew Yvonne Tate or the fact that he'd committed violence against a woman. "I'm sorry you were there."

  His head snapped up, dark gaze burning. "What?"

  Too late, I realized how that sounded. "That is, I'm sorry that you had to be the one to shoot her. Because, well, you knew her."

  "I didn't though." He laughed, the sound low and bitter. "I didn't know her. And I never would have suspected that she was fixated on me. She had her own little collection, you know. In her room. Things she'd taken from my place. She was much more careful than Frankie. Items I'd thrown out, pictures from albums. I never even noticed."

 

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