Marcus’s body jerked.
Time went wrong, thick and slow.
He collapsed straight down, like his strings had been cut.
The dark figure sprinted through the kitchen, into the foyer, and out the front door.
I dropped the phone. It squawked, "911, what's your emergency?" I crawled to my husband on my hands and knees. Something cold and sticky soaked my palms. Melted ice cream cake. And blood.
His shirt blooming red. I pressed my hands to the wound, hard then harder. I felt the hot, slick gush under my fingers.
"Stay with me," I begged. "Stay, just stay." The words useless and frantic. "Don't leave me!"
He tried to breathe. The sound came out wet and rattling. His eyes searched my face, then slid past me. "Mia… "
"She's okay, Marcus. She's okay. You saved us, baby. It's okay, stay with me. Stay with me!"
Sirens wailed somewhere far away. Faint at first, then growing louder. They were still too far, still utterly useless.
"Help is coming, Marcus. Hold on," I said, my throat shredded. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Marcus's fingers twitched against my wrist. They loosened. His hand went slack. His eyes unfocused. They stared straight through me.
The sirens screamed closer. Pointless now. Too late. Always too late.
In horror and disbelief, I turned toward Mia.
She was standing trembling beside the island. Her yellow dress too bright, garish. Her face white, her eyes too big, too empty. At her feet, cake leaked from the torn box, melting pink ice cream spreading in a slow puddle that mixed with the red. Strawberry and iron, the scent of urine, of bodily fluids. The metallic taste of blood in my throat?—
"Mom?"
Mia's voice cut through the haze of memory. The kitchen dissolved, the blood, the ice cream cake. I was back on the uneven stone walkway in the rain, soaked through and shivering, facing my open front door.
The police had caught the man who'd killed my husband two days later. He'd been a heroin addict, in and out of prison several times, with a rap sheet as long as my arm for burglary, armed robbery, and aggravated assault.
A random act of violence. Wrong place, wrong time. Bad luck.The criminal got 20 years. We got a life sentence of grief, heartache, and loss.
That wouldn't happen again. Not here. Not in this safe, elite enclave.
That's why I chose this place. I told myself we were safe here. The words rang hollow inside my head.
My hand strayed to my phone in my jacket pocket. Calling the police sounded like a terrible idea. They were already suspicious. I didn't want to give them access to our house, our things, or our lives, unless we were forced to.
Certainly not before I figured out what to do with those damn slippers.
From inside the house, Apollo barked loudly. My knees went weak with relief. There probably wasn't a sadistic killer lurking inside with Apollo enthusiastically slobbering all over him.
Then again, Apollo was about as likely to lick a burglar as he would Mia or me.
I turned to Mia. "Wait on the porch with Apollo. Let me check it out."
I managed to open the door enough for the German Shepherd to barrel out and pounce on Mia. I extracted the Mace from my purse and held it in one hand, my phone in the other hand, 911 at the ready.
Anxiety thrummed through my veins. I checked the house. In the bathroom, I yanked the shower curtain back in one exaggerated sweep. The linen closet held stacks of towels and haphazardly folded bedsheets. The kitchen held day-old dishes in the sink.
I went back downstairs, into my office.
My blue composition notebook was gone. The one where I kept handwritten notes for my freelance assignments, to-do lists, and snippets of ideas. The same one that had been moved the other day. It had been right here on my desk this morning, sitting next to my laptop.
