Читать книгу Danger at Her Door - Beth Cornelison - Страница 6

After drying off and dressing in a T-shirt and jeans, Jack walked into the living room where his daughter sprawled on the floor watching her favorite cartoon video. He took a moment to collect himself, deciding how to address Caitlyn’s disobedience. Again. Nothing he said to Caitlyn seemed to get through to her.

“Caitlyn, we need to talk.”

Thank goodness his neighbor—Megan, she’d said her name was—had returned his wayward daughter in one piece.

He grinned as he remembered the stunned expression that had washed over Megan’s face when she’d seen him wearing only a towel. He’d caught the spark of interest that flickered in Megan’s eyes, too. Discerning, jade eyes. Yeah, he’d done a little looking of his own. His new neighbor was a beautiful woman. The fact that she cared enough about Caitlyn’s interests to bring her home scored points for her, as well.

He just hoped his inability to control his rambunctious daughter’s wanderings hadn’t colored her against him. Jack was definitely interested in getting to know Megan better. Much better.

But when? That was the problem.

Sighing, Jack dismissed thoughts of dinner and dancing with Megan. As it was, he barely kept his head above water. What little free time he had belonged to Caitlyn—time to read her books and listen to her talk about preschool. Maybe if he could carve out more quality time with her, Caitlyn wouldn’t feel compelled to crawl out windows or finger paint the kitchen with peanut butter and jelly when his back was turned.

But his job at the newspaper didn’t allow him more time with his daughter. If only he could figure out how other single parents balanced work and kids. If only Lauren hadn’t walked out on them…

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and shoved the “if onlys” out of his mind. The fact remained that Lauren had walked out on their five-year marriage, and no amount of regret or wishing would change that. He had to figure out how to be a single dad before his failings as a parent resulted in bigger problems than Caitlyn crawling out a window while he was in the shower.

Dragging a hand down his face, he strode over to the TV and jabbed the power button. Cinderella’s mice friends faded to black.

When Caitlyn faced him, her lower lip poked out in a pout. “But Cinderella’s my favorite.”

“I know that, munchkin, but you’ve already watched it twice today.” Jack sat on the edge of his worn-out plaid sofa and struggled for the right words to discipline his daughter.

“Caitlyn, haven’t I told you that when I’m working or in the shower or on the phone, you have to stay inside? I can’t be two places at once, and you can’t go in the yard without someone to watch you.”

“But there weren’t any cars in the street!” Caitlyn whined, her protest giving Jack new insight to her disobedience.

He knitted his brow in a frown. “You’re also supposed to stay away from the street.”

“I had to pat the doggie!” Caitlyn spread her hands and gave him a look that said she felt her excuse exempted her from punishment.

Sitting straighter, Jack patted his leg and wiggled his fingers to motion Caitlyn closer. She gave him her I-know-I’m-in-trouble-but-aren’t-I-cute look to counter his fatherly scowl.

“Honey, you can’t go in the street. Ever. Not without an adult holding your hand. And I’ve told you before not to pat strange dogs. Not all dogs are nice.”

“Sam was nice, and so was Megan.” Caitlyn scratched a mosquito bite on her arm and shrugged.

Jack quirked an eyebrow. He didn’t bother to argue the fact that Sam didn’t seem so nice to him.

“I think Megan looks like Cinderella.” Caitlyn grinned and pranced over to him, twirling like a ballerina. “Did you think she was pretty, Daddy?”

What he thought about Megan was too racy for a four-year-old. Megan’s petite body had enticing feminine curves, and although she hadn’t worn much makeup, her cheeks had been flushed pink from the summer heat. Jack felt his own brow warm as he thought of other ways Megan could get flushed and out of breath. With him.

“Daddy?”

Caitlyn’s summons snapped him out of his sultry daydreams. “Yeah, I thought she was pretty.”

For crying out loud, he didn’t even know if Megan was married. He had no business fantasizing about her. Even if he was in the midst of months-long sex depravation.

Caitlyn clambered onto his lap, her bony knees and elbows jabbing him awkwardly. “Can I go to her house sometime and play with Sam?”

“I don’t know, Cait. Sam’s not the sort of dog I want you playing with. He was pretty big and—” Mean.

She slapped her arms across her chest and poked out her lip. His little drama queen.

Cut to the chase. You’ve got an article to write.

“You could get hurt if you don’t obey the rules. The rules are: don’t go outside alone, don’t go in the street and don’t pat strange dogs. Okay?”

“But I didn’t get hurt!”

“Caitlyn, the point is—”

The loud jangling of the telephone interrupted the point.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he told Caitlyn and shoved off the sofa.

Snatching up the phone, he balanced the receiver on his shoulder while he rummaged through the freezer for a frozen dinner he could zap in the microwave for Caitlyn’s supper. “H’lo?”

“Jack? Burt, here.”

As soon as his boss said his name, Jack winced. With all the interruptions this afternoon, he hadn’t finished his article for tomorrow morning’s edition. Without looking at the clock, he knew he’d missed his deadline.

“Burt, I know. I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Aggravation knotted Jack’s stomach. He’d never get the big story assignments and lead headlines if he couldn’t even get the fluff articles on Burt’s desk by deadline. Generally, Burt Harwood, the news editor, cut him a lot of slack. He knew Jack’s situation as a single father in a new town. He made allowances for Jack missing a deadline here and there.

But Jack didn’t want allowances. He wanted better assignments, bigger pieces to write, more credit for his journalistic talent. He wanted to prove to his boss he could handle his job and his family.

He could do it. He would do it. Lauren had given him no choice.

“Listen, Burt, I’ll have the piece on the sheriff candidates’ rally finished tonight.” He expelled a whoosh of air in frustration. “Give me until nine. Caitlyn goes to bed by eight, and I’ll e-mail you the article as soon as it’s done. I swear. Things have been crazy around—”

“Listen, forget the candidates rally for now. We’ve got something breaking down at the police station.”

Jack perked up. He smelled a big story. This could be his break. Finally.

“They’ve arrested a guy—some white-collar banker type—turned in by his girlfriend. They think he could be connected to an old serial rape case they never solved. One the cops dubbed ‘The Gentleman Rapist’ because the guy gained entry to the women’s houses by posing as a cop doing courtesy security checks. The Good Samaritan ploy.”

Good Samaritan… Jack’s thoughts flickered briefly to Megan. Her shy smile. Her flushed cheeks and clingy, sweat-dampened T-shirt.

With a shake of his head, Jack refocused his thoughts. “Burt, I want this story. Give me this one, and you won’t be sorry.”

“Can you get down to the police department tonight and get the particulars for the morning edition?”

Jack grimaced as he slid Caitlyn’s dinner in the microwave. “Not tonight. I don’t have a babysitter.”

“Then I’m sending Parker.”

Jack’s stomach clenched in irritation. “Look, Caitlyn has preschool in the morning. I’ll be free to talk to the cops then. I’ll talk to the guy’s neighbors. I’ll call his first-grade teacher if I have to, but I’ll get you the story. You know I can write a better story than Parker. I’ll find a fresh angle, something that the TV guys and the Lagniappe Herald missed.”

Jack raked his fingers through his hair, searching for the tidbit that would tip the scales in his favor. He hoped that mentioning the Herald, the other newspaper in town, would appeal to Burt’s competitive nature.

“I’m sending Parker.” Burt hesitated and sighed. “But you can pick up the story in the morning. After I see what you and Parker each bring to the story, I’ll make my final assignment. Don’t let me down on this, Jack. This is the biggest story to break in this town for months.”

“I hear you, Burt. And I won’t let you down.”

The next morning, Megan stared at the men lined up behind the one-way glass and fought the urge to throw up. Anxiety, anger and frustration twisted inside her until she thought she might shatter under the pressure.

But not now. Right now she had to pull herself together. She had a job to do. The sooner she did her job, the sooner she could get out of the small room where the walls seemed to close in on her. The stale odor of cigarettes and the noxious fumes of floor cleaner hung in the air, contributing to her queasiness.

More unsettling were all the uniforms gathered around her, the men with guns on their hips and badges on their chests.

Policemen are our friends, she’d taught her class on career day. They protect us and help us during emergencies.

But the man who had attacked her had exploited her trust in a police uniform, used that trust to get inside her home. And the sea of blue uniforms was a too-vivid reminder of the army of officers who’d replied to her 911 call and tramped through her home gathering evidence. They’d asked endless questions when all she wanted to do was block out the horrid images and escape the sounds replaying in her head.

Beside her, Ginny hovered quietly, her hand on Megan’s shoulder in a silent show of support.

“Do you recognize anything about any of them?” The police detective in the dark room with them asked his questions in low, modulated tones. Ginny and the detective had taken pains to make Megan’s task as easy on her as possible. Still, the notion that one of the men in the next room, lined up for her inspection, could be the man who’d haunted her for five years sent a chill slithering down her spine.

When she tried to answer, no sound left her mouth. After clearing her throat, Megan tried again. “I recognize number three. He’s the man I saw on the news last night.”

The detective shifted his weight and scribbled in the small notebook in his hand.

“But—” Her gaze remained locked on the glowering faces behind the window.

In the periphery of her vision, the detective stopped writing and raised his head. “But what?”

Drawing a slow, shaky breath, she shoved down her discouragement. “I can’t say with any conviction that he, or any of the others, is the man who—” When Megan faltered, Ginny reached for her hand and squeezed it. “The man who raped me.”

Facing the detective, Megan sighed. “God knows I wish I could. But the man who attacked me had a lightning bolt tattoo on his forearm. And…he was balding and—”

A shudder race through her, remembering the face that she’d worked five years to erase from her nightmares. “He’s not any of those men.”

“You’re sure?”

She heard frustration in the detective’s voice. With a nod, she glanced back at the lineup of men, and the knots in her stomach tightened. The man she recognized from the television stared straight ahead. His light gray eyes stabbed her like shards of flint.

As cold and frightening as his pale glare was, the menacing eyes she recalled so vividly from the night of her attack had been dark brown, almost black. The man in the lineup had no decoration on his arm, nor any scar indicating the removal of a lightning bolt tattoo. Though she wanted to believe her assailant had been caught, the inconsistencies led her to the only conclusion that made sense.

Her rapist still walked the street.

“I’m sure,” she whispered. “Wanting him to be the right one doesn’t make him so.”

The detective nodded and shoved away from the wall where he’d propped during her viewing. “All right. Thank you for coming down, Miss Hoffman. The officer at the desk will have some papers for you to sign. That’s all.”

Megan raised her head as the officer opened the door and held it for her and Ginny. “I’m sorry.”

Ginny frowned at her and tucked a wisp of her pale blond hair behind her ear. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Lifting Megan’s purse from the floor, Ginny handed her the bag and met Megan’s gaze with unwavering certainty in her blue eyes. “You’re not to blame for anything that’s happened since the day that bastard hurt you. This guy doesn’t fit the description of your assailant, and you’ve done nothing wrong by saying so.”

Megan slid her purse strap over her shoulder and flashed her blond friend a weak smile. “Right, right. I know that. I do.”

“I know you know it. I want you to believe it.”

“I’m working on that part.” Before her friend could respond, Megan hurried through the open door and into the corridor, eager to escape the confines of the dark, stuffy room. She spotted the ladies’ room down the hall and made a beeline for it.

She barely got the stall door closed before her stomach pitched and heaved.

“Megan? Are you all right?” Ginny called to her.

Wiping her mouth with a wad of toilet paper, she sagged against the side of the stall. “Just dandy.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

Bless Ginny’s heart. How could she have survived any of this horror without Ginny’s levelheaded reassurance and unflappable friendship? Opening the door, Megan staggered out of the stall and to the sink to rinse out her mouth. “Do you have a breath mint or a piece of gum?”

Ginny rummaged through her purse and extracted a roll of peppermint Life Savers. “How about one of these?”

Megan splashed water on her face then nodded. “Perfect.”

“All in the line of duty.” The blonde rubbed Megan’s arm. “Feel better now or would you like to sit down somewhere?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I just want to sign those papers and get out of here.” Megan popped one of the mints in her mouth and glanced in the mirror as she reached for a paper towel to dry her face. Her complexion seemed waxy and pale, and puffy bags under her eyes testified to her sleepless night. Her liberal use of water to cool her cheeks left her mascara smudged and damp tendrils of her hair plastered against her neck. In short, she looked a wreck.

Wadding the paper towel in a ball, she jammed it in the trash by the restroom door and followed Ginny out to the front desk. The officer at the desk handed her several forms to sign. She scratched her name in sprawling script in the designated blanks, eager to shake the dust of this morning’s task from her sandals and go home.

“Megan?”

She lifted her gaze to find a familiar pair of hazel eyes studying her, and her pulse went haywire.

Jack Calhoun.