“Not very satisfying, really,” she remarks to Toni, who’s sprawled over her lap. “If this was a book, readers would want details. They’d want to see everything play out scene by scene. But sometimes, imagining is better.”
She closes her eyes and tries to picture the prick of a lawyerwho wroteHow to Get Away with Murder, to cover up his murder of his aunt. He’s walking toward the front door in his fancy house to answer a knock. He looks through the peephole, because even killers take precautions. A man waits on his doorstep. He recognizes the man. A client. A fellow criminal. The lawyer opens the door and Richie Scott steps inside. Richie’s ranting about his girlfriend, Lindsay, saying that he’s tracked her phone to this address. Richie suspects she’s trying to leave him and has hired herself a lawyer. The lawyer, of course, denies all knowledge of Lindsay’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, Richie doesn’t believe him and, more unfortunately still, Richie has a temper. What follows is a bone-crunching, lip-bursting, rib-cracking montage in Sam’s imagination.
She forces the smile from her face, takes out her phone and calls local hospitals until she lands on the right one. She tries to lace her voice with concern and to sound much older than she is when she speaks to the nurse.
“Windsor, Julius Windsor,” Sam says, “I’d like to know how he’s doing, please, dear.”
“Are you family?” the nurse asks.
“Oh, yes,” Sam says. “I’m his Aunt Elizabeth. But you can call me Betty.”
The nurse tells her that she’s very sorry, but Mr. Windsor is in a critical condition. If Betty can possibly make it to the hospital, she should come soon. Sam explains that she can’t come but would the lovely nurse please hold Julius’s hand and tell him that Auntie Betty is thinking of him? She will? How kind.
Sam hangs up and laughs hard as Del Boy pours Maxwell House coffee over Uncle Albert’s posh dinner. It takes a few minutes for her to regain her breath, then suddenly something makes her spine tingle: a noise. The gentle click of her garden gate. Movement outside. A footstep. The crunch of glass underfoot. Anoutside security light flashes on. She holds her breath, straining to hear more. Then, the unmistakable sound of someone trying the handle of her front door. Sam grabs the TV remote, hitting the off-button and plunging the room into darkness.
It’s time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam’s armpits prickle and her ears flood with a roaring sound. She hears the door click as it opens. A footstep on the hallway tiles. She can hear someone breathing. Then, the door closes softly. Another footstep in the hall. Someone is inside her home. Sheer panic runs through her and she’s frozen, unable to move. Some distant part of her knows she should find her phone and dial 999, but she just sits there, paralyzed. Fear makes her pelvic floor muscles drop. She can hear herself panting. She can taste her fear—a familiar, salty flavor at the back of her throat.
A bright light shines in the hallway. Perhaps a mobile-phone torch.
A man steps into the lounge.
He’s dressed all in black leather that squeaks as he advances into the room. A balaclava covers his features but Sam knows exactly who he is. She rises slowly to her feet, her dressing gown heavy around her. Her movement draws his attention and he turns, shining the light in her face.
“Hello, Samantha,” he says, his voice muffled by the fabric overhis face. He flicks his left wrist and a long, thin shape extends in front of him. “Find your weapon in the victim’s house,” he says, paraphrasing Denver Brady and waving her own baton at her. “This is better than a bread knife.” She never returned the baton to her utility belt after polishing it. It was there, in the hallway, for him to pick up. He laughs cruelly through the open mouth of the mask.
“I thought I might see you again,” she says, trying but failing to level her voice. Legs jelly. Heart pumping. Her hand extended to shield her face from the torchlight.
“You thought you’d see me again, but you still didn’t have the sense to lock your front door?” he asks.
“What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he growls as he steps toward her. Sam jumps but can’t go anywhere. She’s in the corner of the room and he’s still standing in the only doorway. She notices his muddy footprints on the old carpet and wonders fleetingly if he’s wearing boots that are his own or have been bought especially for tonight, as Denver would have advised. “Where’s my girlfriend?” he growls.
“You murdered her, remember?”
“I’ll fuck you up,” he hisses.
She can’t help but bark a laugh at how predictable he is.
“Don’t you dare fucking la—”
“OK, Richie,” Sam says, holding her hands up. “I know where Lindsay is, and I’ll tell you. But first, tell me what happened with Julius Windsor. I want details. Did he beg?”
“You’re one twisted—”
“Bitch?” Sam suggests. “Julius told me I had daddy issues.” She shrugs. “He was right, I suppose. But I dealt with my daddy issues when I was nineteen.”
“Lindsay’s here, isn’t she?” he demands, spinning to look toward the hall and stairs.
Sam reaches calmly into her dressing gown pocket and pullsout her Taser. “Freeze!” she shouts, in as firm a voice as she can muster. “You’re under arrest for entering—”
“Lindsay!” Richie bellows. Sam deploys her Taser, firing it directly across the room and hitting him in the hip. It’s a good body shot. Clean; well timed. He falls to his knees, and her baton skitters across the hall tiles. But the leather protects him from a strong jolt, and he begins to stand again.
“Taser! Taser!” Sam shouts, more out of habit than to warn Richie that she’s about to deliver another shock. Richie wobbles as she presses the trigger and gets him again, but remains in a kneeling position. He twists around, pulls the Taser from his bike leathers, drops it on the carpet.
