Читать книгу Unseen - Nancy Bush - Страница 9

Will stepped out of Gemma’s room, then stopped in the hall outside and looked back through the still open, handicap-sized doorway. In his line of vision was a chair, the end of the bed and the window drapes. He couldn’t quite see the hump of Gemma LaPorte’s feet, nor was there anything he could view that gave a hint of who she was and why she’d ended up at Laurelton General.

Someone wasn’t playing straight with him. Gemma LaPorte wasn’t playing straight with him.

“Officer?” a young nurse asked him, and he turned to give her his attention. “Um, Billy’s waiting for you in the ER? The EMT who saw her come in? Nurse Penny told me to make sure you knew.”

“Thanks.”

Will headed toward the stairway. Laurelton General was stair-stepped down the north face of a bluff, its levels ranging from two below street level with windows that only faced north, to three above. Will pressed the down button to take him from four to three, which was street level, then he walked briskly down a wide hallway that angled toward the south end and the ER.

The place was quiet at five p.m., but he doubted it would be for long. It was early October under a full moon. The old superstition about behavior changes at the time of a full moon seemed to hold true. Bad behavior, and just plain odd behavior, prevailed. If anything weird was going to happen, it most certainly did beneath a full moon, and teenagers especially seemed to be affected, at least in Will’s experience. They drove too fast and drank and smoked things they shouldn’t, not giving a damn what the adults thought.

Live fast and die young.

Will’s brother had lived by that credo…and died by it as well. Sophomore year, home from college for Thanksgiving, and a wild, drunken party at a friend’s parents’ house had resulted in Dylan’s jumping off the roof into the pool. His leap to the water had fallen short, landing him on the cement apron surrounding the pool.

A year younger, Will had been dinking around through his freshman year when Dylan’s death occurred. It had stunned him hard and eventually helped turn his interest to first law, then criminology. Barely out of school, Will had taken a position with the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department as little more than a gofer. He’d meant for it to be short term. He’d had bigger plans. Law school. A master’s program. Something far away from his widowed mother, whose grip on reality loosened after Dylan’s death. But Will hadn’t been able to leave either her or Laurelton. Years went by, and he ended up staying way longer than he would have ever credited.

He also ended up in a relationship with Dylan’s ex-girlfriend, Shari, which was detrimental to both of them. It only took six months for Will to realize it was a huge mistake; it took eight years to convince Shari of the same. To this day she sometimes showed up unexpectedly at his small, ranch-style house on the outskirts of Laurelton, to throw a scene and collapse into racking sobs. Neither Shari nor his mother had moved past Dylan’s death. For years, Will had unknowingly enabled their behavior. These days, he avoided Shari at all costs, and his mom’s descent into dementia had necessitated hiring a live-in caretaker for her. In some ways it felt to Will like he was slowly waking from a long sleep. He liked his job but he was itching to move on.

He needed something to happen. Something.

His cell buzzed and he glanced at the LCD: Barb Gillette, his partner, a transfer from Clackamas County. Will grimaced as he answered. She had a thing for him. He knew it; she didn’t try to hide it. And yes, they’d even spent a few nights out together, though not recently. It was a fine balance for Will as he wanted to keep their working relationship on an even keel, while Barb constantly fought to take it to another level.

It was all probably going to come to a head. Some ugly, future, unavoidable scene. Ah, well.

“Tanninger,” he answered shortly.

“Hey, handsome. What’s the verdict? She the mad pedophile-rammer?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t tell me. She stares at you with big doe eyes and swears she’s innocent.”

He grunted.

“Seriously, do you think she did it?” Barb asked.

“Too early to tell. Definitely a lot of signs point to that direction, but she doesn’t remember the accident.”

“Convenient.”

Will thought about Gemma LaPorte and wondered. There was a lot more going on with her than she was letting him see. He finished his call with Barb, clicked off, then pulled a small notebook from his pocket. Flipping it open, he entered the gray-and-green-striped ER waiting room, with its club chairs backed against the walls and nestled in front of the windows to the parking lot. Billy Mendes was the EMT who had seen Gemma LaPorte walk unaided into the ER area. Will had left word that he wanted to speak to anyone who might have witnessed that inauspicious event and Billy had finally gotten the message and let the hospital know.

“I”m looking for Billy Mendes,” Will said to a rather doubtful looking aide holding a clipboard. “He’s an EMT who has information for the sheriff’s department.”

“Oh.” She chewed on her lip, furrowed her brow and gazed down at her clipboard. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“I was just told he was waiting for me.”

“Really? Huh…” She glanced behind her to an officious-looking woman in hospital garb. “Lorraine, is Billy still here?”

“He left.”

“Um…there’s a policeman…er…sheriff’s guy here for him…?”

Lorraine looked up. Her hair was dyed black and her lipstick was orange. She looked like every nightmare school-nurse depicted in film and television. “Well, he left. He’s got a job, you know. Crash at the four corners. Bicycler involved.” She sniffed, as if they were all just asking to be run down by motorists.

“Uh…okay…” The girl gave Will a look from the top of her eyes. “Do you wanna wait?”

“I’ll be back.”

Will fought back his annoyance. He’d been trying to connect with Mendes for several days, but they’d been unable to meet for one reason or another. A multiple-car accident was certainly a good enough reason. Will was just anxious to get some solid information on the woman in 434 who may, or may not, be some kind of killing avenger.

He retraced his steps, taking the stairs toward her room. Passing by it, he hazarded a glance inside but the lights were dimmed. He imagined she was sleeping.

He headed on toward the end of the hall, took another flight of stairs to the top floor, then walked the hallway directly above Gemma’s room. Outside the bank of windows facing north was a wall of black cloud. Rain was about to return and deluge them after a few days’ respite. Maybe it would finally penetrate the packed earth that was hard as stone, a result of a parched summer and dry early fall.

He came to a closed door with an empty chair outside. Ralph Smithson had been sent over by the sheriff’s department to guard Edward Letton, but he apparently wasn’t taking his job seriously, which was no surprise. Will knew the guy well and was sure Smithson felt playing babysitter wasn’t up to his level of expertise. Smithson was big and loud and could complain like it was an Olympic sport. He would consider keeping watch over Letton to be beneath him, yet he wouldn’t be happy with a job that required him to expend any energy either. He was one of those guys that needed to be shit-canned like yesterday, but he toadied up to Sheriff Nunce on a regular basis, so Will was stuck with him for now. And Laurelton General was outside the city limits and therefore the county’s problem, so good old Ralph was going to have to suck it up and play bodyguard.

Except he was missing in action from his post.

Silently cursing the man, Will placed a palm against the light oak door and pushed, taking a few quiet steps inside the room. Letton lay beneath the glow of a light attached to the headboard of his bed. His right leg had been broken in three places and he was skinned up like he’d been scraped over a cheese grater. But it was the injury to his skull that had placed him in a coma. Smithson probably figured there was no way the guy was leaving this place on his own power and had decided to check out the lunchroom. Nevertheless, Will didn’t plan on leaving till the guard returned.

Seven minutes later Ralph came hustling down the hall carrying a tray. He’d raided both the cafeteria and some vending machines, as he balanced a heaping helping of some kind of stroganoff with mystery meat, and several bright, plastic bags of Fritos, Doritos, and other Lay’s and Ruffles products.

He jerked as if caught in a nefarious act upon seeing Will. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Will said mildly. “What’s the status on our patient?”

Ralph hesitated, quickly reviewing his options. Will could practically read the questions running behind his bullish forehead: Should I play it safe? Be contrite? Come up with an excuse? Should I bluff my way out? In the end he regarded Will balefully, choosing to go on the attack. “Do I look like a doctor?” he sneered. “The fucker ain’t no patient. He’s a fucking pedophile.”

“I’d ask you where you’ve been but it would be a redundant question.”

“Yeah?” Ralph’s jaw clenched pugnaciously.

“I’d just like you to stick by the door.”

“That’s what I’m doin’, Kemosabe.”

“I want Letton to wake up and explain about that gear in his van.” Will carefully tucked his annoyance behind a stoic facade.

“He’s a sick fucker,” Ralph said, ripping open a bag of Fritos and stuffing a fistful into his mouth. “Hope he dies. Not that I’d do anything to help him along, but if he made a run for it, I’d drop him, man.”

“He’s not going to be running anywhere,” Will pointed out.

“He’s going straight to hell, that’s where. You tell that girl in room 434 she did the world a favor. Almost, anyway. If this fucker lives…” He shook his head and reached in the bag for another hammy fistful.

Will left him to his food and retraced his steps toward the ER. At Gemma’s room, he gave up all pretense of disinterest and peeked inside.

There was no one in the bed.

No one in the room.

Climbing out of bed had been all fine and good, but the dizziness that overwhelmed Gemma made her realize she wasn’t going to be able to hightail it to freedom with any real speed. She was injured, and her body wasn’t eager to move.

“Damn,” she whispered, swaying as she headed toward the bifold closet doors which, when opened, revealed a small, built-in chest of drawers and little else.

She found her clothes in a plastic bag in the top drawer of the chest. They were identified by the number 434 written on the bag in black felt pen. Gemma pulled the items out carefully and gazed in a kind of awe at the blood-soaked T-shirt and ripped jeans. The fabric over one thigh was sliced as if by a knife and Gemma looked down at the thin, superficial wound that ran down her corresponding leg.

Another wave of wooziness grabbed her and she stumbled back to the bed, her clothes squeezed inside her fists. Her head throbbed. It took a lot longer than it should have to remove her hospital nightgown, and when she was undressed her eyes automatically moved to her left hip, where the hipbone did not flare out in the same way as it did on her right. An old injury, with a scar that was shaped somewhat like a dagger. She tried to remember what had happened there but her mind shied away. She sensed she knew, or almost knew, but her mind was locked down.

There was no underwear. No panties. No bra.

Girding her loins, she stuck one leg through the blood-spattered jeans and felt a wave of nausea that almost made her throw up. She slid the other leg inside with more care. When she’d gotten the pants on, she zipped them up and buttoned them, then paused a moment, gathering strength. A rip ran down one leg from thigh to just below the knee. She had more of a mental struggle with herself than a physical one as she dragged the T-shirt over her bandaged head. Dressed, she cautiously moved to the bathroom and, propping herself up against the sink, examined her reflection in the mirror. Her breath whooshed out in a rush of distaste. She turned away from the staring eye and bruised skin and white bandage.

Her insides quivered. God, she looked horrible.

And then she had a flash of the man she’d been chasing. The bastard with his putrid lust for children. But she couldn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite put it together. She’d wanted to kill him. That, she could recall.

It took her long, long minutes to find her shoes: a pair of sneakers, also blood-spattered, and she put them on over her bare feet. There were no socks in evidence anywhere. By the time she’d accomplished these tasks she was exhausted, and with a sort of miserable dawning realized she had no purse. It wasn’t anywhere in the room, and for the life of her she could not recall what it even looked like.

Which led her to the next unwelcome discovery: she didn’t remember where she lived. She thought hard for a moment, begging her memory to come through, and suddenly it did. She was from Quarry. Quarry, Oregon. And she’d been making herself breakfast…some kind of…oatmeal? Her heart banged against her chest. She couldn’t remember, but she’d just told that detective what she’d eaten. What was it? What was it? Oatmeal and maybe some fruit?

Gemma lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eye. Her head throbbed. She shouldn’t leave the hospital. She wasn’t well enough. But something told her she had to go. Had to.

A memory shot like a streak behind her eyes:

She was looking out the window and chrysanthemums were getting beaten by a killing rain, their spiky orange heads pressed against the packed dirt.

It hasn’t rained in three days.

She tried to concentrate hard, yet not tax her brain too much. She’d been eating oatmeal with cinnamon. That was right. That’s what she’d told the detective. Slowly bits came back to her…

I’m from Quarry, Oregon. My name is Gemma LaPorte. I’m twenty-seven years old. Or maybe twenty-eight? Or am I older? Gemma took several deep breaths and willed herself to relax. I live…on a farm? My parents’ farm? My father is a farmer…but he’s gone now…my mother, too. No, wait. My parents had a diner. The PickAxe. No…no…That’s a different place. A bar, mostly. My parents had…LuLu’s…and I waited tables when I was younger.

Gemma’s eyes flew open, though she could still only see out of one. She recalled wearing the LuLu’s uniform, a typical old-time diner dress that came in varying colors—hers had been yellow—with pockets and a wide, white collar. Tourists loved LuLu’s, as much for the ambiance as the food.

“I inherited the diner,” she said aloud. But there appeared to be a block to that thinking. A dark wall. There was something more that she couldn’t quite reach.

“My mother worked at the diner.”

Your mother was a liar.

Gemma inhaled and glanced around, half expecting to find the source of that comment, but the words had been inside her head. She felt more pain but was determined to work her way through it. Carefully, she shuffled her way to the door. Would she be able to just walk out? Would they let her leave? She knew there was enough bureaucracy and paperwork waiting for her at hospital administration to make a stronger person weep, but she needed her identification, the name of her insurance company, the address of her home before she could settle her bill.

She wasn’t even sure she had the money to make that happen.

But she had to get out. She had to…find the man she’d been after and finish what she’d started. It was imperative. She could feel a clock ticking inside her head. Time was running short.

What if someone saw her? She looked like she’d barely survived a war. But then this was a hospital. She wouldn’t be the only one bandaged and bloody, would she?

And how the hell would she get to Quarry when she had no money? Did she have a car? The good-looking detective had asked how she’d gotten to the hospital. If only she knew. Had she driven herself and left her car in the lot? Even if she had, it was a moot point because she had no keys! And she had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove.

Nor could she come up with the name of a single friend.

Her heart squeezed. What if my name’s not Gemma LaPorte? There was something about it that sounded wrong. Like it was an alias. An identity trotted out when she didn’t want to give out her real name.

She moved as fast as she dared given her painful head and unsure stomach. She almost slipped right past the stairs, but then saw the sign above the door—an icon of a man in a running position over a jagged line meant to represent the stairs—and chose them with relief as the best way to escape.

She worked her way down the flight with an effort, her head jarring. On the next level down—identified as street level—she hesitated inside the stairwell, afraid to open the door. How long was the hallway between this door and the outside parking lot? How many people around? How many chances for someone to look her way and wonder about the bruise-faced patient with the head bandage?

Cautiously, Gemma pushed the bar on the door and cracked it open, just a bit. In her sliver of sight she could see a carpeted hallway and a row of windows that looked out toward freedom. She didn’t know what she’d do when she got there. But she just wanted out of the hospital.

There was, however, no exterior door visible, just rows of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the hallway and walked unhurriedly to her left, keeping the windows and parking lot at her right shoulder. Surely there would be an exit soon.

The hallway angled even farther left and Gemma rounded the corner. EMERGENCY was written in bold letters above a sliding-glass interior door and beyond was a large room with chairs, and even farther, another set of glass doors which led to a portico where an ambulance sat and EMTs were standing by, waiting for a call. No way she was going there. Quickly, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps.

“Hey,” a male voice called from behind her.

Her pulse leapt. She pretended to be deaf. Maybe they didn’t mean her. Maybe—

“Are you leaving the hospital, Ms. LaPorte?” the voice asked calmly.

Gemma looked up reluctantly, gritting her teeth at the familiar tone of the detective’s voice. Of course he was still here. Of course he would be the one to discover her. She had to slide her gaze away from his probing stare and taut physique. “I don’t have a purse,” she said. “My clothes were in the room, but I don’t have a purse.”

“Did you come by car?”

“I don’t remember.” Did he think he was going to surprise her into telling him something she didn’t know?

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Home. To Quarry.”

“By…foot?”

“Detective…Tanninger,” she said, reading his name tag. She couldn’t remember his first name. “I need to leave. Whatever this is costing, I can’t afford it. I need to find my identification. I need to go home.” Her voice quavered a bit and though she didn’t feel quite as weak as she sounded, she let him think what he wanted. And yeah, she felt bad and it was a simple matter to show it.

“You look like you could use a wheelchair.”

“I know what I look like,” she said wryly.

“Have you talked to the doctor about being released?”

She met his eyes again and didn’t change expression.

His lips twitched, but despite the lines at the corners of his eyes, Gemma didn’t trust that he possessed much of a sense of humor. She hadn’t known many people in law enforcement, but those she had—though she could not for the life of her call them up at this moment—had been notoriously lacking in humor and self-awareness. Their officiousness had left her with the vague sense that police officers were not on her side. Better to handle your own battles than call in the cavalry. Bad things lurked beneath the surface of those supposedly sent to serve and protect.

“You should probably be back in your room,” he said. “But if you want to go to administration and give over your address, name, and social, I can lead you there.”

He was afraid she intended to scam on the bill. That’s what he meant. She was outraged, yet wasn’t that what she’d planned to do? At least in the interim until she could figure out the missing pieces of her life?

Gemma didn’t want to go anywhere with Detective Tanninger. But she sure as hell didn’t want to go back to her room, either.

Yet…she sensed the weariness that was taking hold of her, a dark, descending gloom with strong tentacles. There was an urgency inside her. A need to finish some half-forgotten task, but she also had no means to get to that task and no reserve strength to make that happen. She was bound by her own lack of identification and funds, a weary, beaten body, and a sputtering memory that seemed to blink on and off like a traffic light.

“I think I’ll go back to my room,” she said tremulously.

“All right.” He led her toward the bank of elevators and punched the button for the fourth floor.

Gemma didn’t say anything more, concentrating solely on moving her quivering legs back toward her room. Will cupped her elbow with one hand and helped steady her. If he had more questions, he kept them to himself as they reached the fourth floor and he guided her into her room. Gemma sat herself heavily down on the bed and took a deep, calming breath.

“Do you feel up to a little more conversation?” the detective asked.

No, Gemma thought. All she wanted to do was lie down and gather her strength again. Actually, all she wanted was to recall how she’d come to be at the hospital. But she didn’t want to give Tanninger any reason to make herself seem more interesting. “Fire away.” She eased herself against the headboard and pulled her shoes off, dropping them to the floor.

Nurse Penny looked into the room. “What are you doing?” she asked Gemma sharply.

“Trying to escape. But I got caught.”

The nurse whipped around to glare at Tanninger, as if it were somehow his fault. She pursed her lips, said she would bring Gemma a new hospital gown, then steamed out of the room as if they had both purposely thwarted her authority.

“Don’t you have more pressing cases than a mystery patient?” Gemma asked before Tanninger could speak.

“I was waiting to speak to the EMT who saw you come in two nights ago. We haven’t connected yet.”

“You said I walked in?”

“And collapsed.”

Gemma struggled to remember but her mind was empty. More gaps. “Did you tell me where I came in?”

“To the ER. From the parking lot. I’ll know more when I talk with the EMT.”

“I want to be there when you talk to him.”

“So, you’re not planning to disappear again, then, after I leave the room?”

“No.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to work out—”

Nurse Penny hustled back inside the room and gave Tanninger a look that said vamoose. He walked out the door and Gemma got a good look at his strong back, wide shoulders, and narrow hips as he disappeared from view.

“Let me help you put this on, hon,” the nurse said, and Gemma let her undress her and tie the gown around her back. “You don’t have someone to bring you fresh clothes?” she asked, inclining her head to the T-shirt and jeans.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll just head home and change. Tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Depends on Dr. Avery.”

Tomorrow, Gemma thought determinedly. She had to get back to her real life. She had to remember what she’d been doing. What showdown she was heading for. Who, or what, she’d been after.

The nurse looked as if she wanted to take Gemma’s clothes with her, but she left them in a neat stack on the chair. Gemma momentarily wondered if she had the strength to put them back on, distasteful as that thought was becoming. But even as she gave up the idea for the moment, Detective Tanninger reentered the room.

They eyed each other for several moments, and then he observed, “If you’re too tired, I can come back.”

“I’d like to help you. I just don’t know if I can.”

“Where do you live in Quarry?”

Gemma hesitated. “It’s a farmhouse.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“It’s coming back, but it’s not all there yet,” she said.

“Take your time.”

“A lot of homes in Quarry are farmhouses, though there aren’t as many farms anymore. It was my parents’ place, Jean and Peter LaPorte, but they’re both gone and they left it to me.”

“You live there by yourself?”

Did she? Gemma opened her mouth, thought hard, then said slowly, “Yes…”

“You think your memory difficulty is from the concussion?” he asked casually.

“What else?” she responded quickly, her pulse jumping. But she had a moment of remembrance then. A mental snapshot of herself and her mother in the front room of the farmhouse. There was another woman sitting on the edge of her seat, staring hard at Jean LaPorte. Anxious. Waiting. And all around them the cloying, sweet scent of peonies from the magenta bouquet bursting in a vase on the scarred table.

“Your memory lapse seems greater than what I would expect from a concussion,” he said. “What’s your address?”

“I don’t really want to talk anymore.” Gemma looked away.

“You can’t remember it.”

“I’ve been in some kind of accident, detective. I’m not a hundred per cent. If you have a specific question, ask it. Otherwise I don’t think I can help you any further.”

He looked at her hard. “Afraid of me finding out that you ran down a man with your car?”

Gemma stared at him in shock. “What?” she asked softly.

“The man’s unconscious, upstairs. He’s a pedophile, by the looks of what we found in his van.”

“In his van…?” she repeated faintly.

“It looks like you ran him down on purpose.”

There was no humor in his face now. It was hard and tough and an accusation hung in his dark eyes. Gemma tried to remember. She’d remembered the man’s lust. She’d felt it. She’d chased him…

Or, had she? It felt like these were someone else’s memories. Manufactured. Not real, and not hers!

“No…I don’t think so,” she denied.

“You don’t think so.”

She didn’t respond and Tanninger went on to tersely explain about the man who’d been run down at a soccer field, how he’d been driving a van filled with handcuffs and chains and ropes, how some unidentified woman had aimed her car at him and flipped him into the air, how he’d survived the attack, but just barely. As Gemma listened she understood that the detective had been plying her with questions in order to find out what she knew, if anything, about the attack. He half-believed—maybe even fully believed—that she’d been behind the wheel of the car that had attacked the man, a pedophile.

When he was finished Gemma’s head felt like it was going to explode. Is that what she’d done? Is that why she couldn’t remember?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a shaking voice that nevertheless rang with conviction.

Tanninger drew a breath, expanding his chest. What did it say about her, Gemma wondered, that even when he was panicking her with his questions, she could notice how tan his skin was, how good he looked in his pressed shirt and dark pants, how strong and able he seemed, like someone she could depend on.

But then she recalled, with almost a ping of remembrance, that she’d always been attracted to a man in a uniform, no matter whether they had a sense of humor or not.

Outside good old Laurelton General, Inga Selbourne had raced to her Honda compact as soon as she’d gotten off work. She was proud to be a nurse. Proud to wear the uniform. Proud to have a job—a really good job!—at the best, the only, hospital in Winslow County. She’d congratulated herself again as she’d hurriedly unlocked the door and climbed inside, and she’d been congratulating herself all the way home to the little apartment attached to the farmhouse on the outskirts of the town of Laurelton itself.

Or, was it the inskirts of Laurelton? she thought with a grin, as it was on the eastern side of the city, toward Portland.

She’d had one heck of a time getting through nursing school. Whew, those classes had been rough. She’d had to pull all-nighters more often than she cared to admit, and even then if it hadn’t been for Jarrod Benningfield and his copy of that anatomy test, she would have been screwed! Jarrod’s sister had whizzed through the semester before, and Jarrod had handed Inga the test and the answers and all she’d had to do was pretend to be his girlfriend—the pimple-faced little horror—and oh, yeah, give him a blow job or two, but she’d been through that drill enough times to know that sex was a bargaining chip, nothing more.

Luckily the shortage of nurses made it a slam-bang for her to get a job as soon as she graduated. And she was good at what she did, anyway. Really, really good. There was a hell of a lot more to caring for the sick than acing a few tests, that was for sure. Everyone told her how good she was at her job and it just swelled her with pride. It sure did.

And she’d wanted to be at Laurelton General. It was totally perfect! It wasn’t too far away from her apartment, and if she wanted some fun, it was a straight shot into Portland on Highway 26, the Sunset Highway, on that last stretch before Portland city center, and when she needed to go to her job, well, that was a cinch. She was thinking about heading into Portland tonight. Lately she’d been going to that new nightclub in the Pearl that played hot music and served Caribbean martinis. Whew, they were powerful. She’d had to take a taxi home a few times, and she’d gone home with friends a few times, too. Slept with a couple of guys she shouldn’t have. Fuck-buddies. She shrugged her small shoulders. What’cha gonna do.

As the wheels of her car ate up the miles, Inga shrugged those thoughts aside. She didn’t dwell on past mistakes or less than perfect decision-making. Life was good. She had her own place and her own life. The apartment was small: a studio with a partition. The only honest-to-goodness room was the bathroom. It at least had a real door. But the space was all hers and now, as she drove through the dark toward home, she felt a smile cross her lips despite the sudden rain that was peppering hard against her windshield.

She switched on the wipers. Jesus, what a downpour. You’d think it was the middle of winter.

The couple in the front farmhouse—her landlords—were kind of out of it, but they left her to her own devices. It was a little creepy sometimes because they’d given up farming years earlier and the property was overgrown, with a barn of gray, broken wood, that listed heavily. Beyond the house was a pasture of Scotch broom and weeds with a stand of firs ringing the northern end. Nothing had been taken care of for years.

But her apartment was the best. The absolute best. And cheap!

She hummed to herself as she pulled into the drive that ran alongside the farmhouse, tucking her Honda into the space provided for her at the north end of her apartment. She hurried up her front steps and unlocked the door. Her ears caught the sound of another vehicle pulling into the gravel drive, somewhere behind her on the route she’d just traveled. The farmers? There’d been lights on in the main house and she’d just assumed they were inside. Huh.

She hesitated for a moment, listening. She thought she heard an engine, but the crunch of wheels on gravel was gone. Was someone waiting inside a car around the front of the farmhouse where she couldn’t see? Or was it just roadway sounds she’d let enter her mind?

Inga let half a minute pass, then lost interest. She had places to go, people to see, dances to dance, drinks to knock back. Quickly she dropped her purse and coat on the single chair in the main room and tossed her keys on the kitchen counter. She then headed to the bathroom, turned on the shower and stripped off her uniform, letting it pool on the floor.

There was a guy she’d met. Daniel. He was so damn hot, with longish dark hair that brushed over the collar of his shirt, and the most fabulous blue eyes. His physique was lean and taut, just the way she liked it. She’d wanted to moan when they’d slow-danced, his crotch pressed to hers. Whenever she saw him it was like he radiated the word sex. She didn’t care what it took, they were going to get together tonight. She’d find a way to go home with him. Her shift didn’t start tomorrow until eleven, so they had hours to kill making love.

She practically gave herself an orgasm just thinking about him.

She was toweling off when she heard the sound. A slight squeak of a soft-soled shoe. Her heart clutched. Had she locked the door? Had she? She could visualize her keys tossed on the kitchen counter, but she couldn’t remember twisting the lock.

She was naked. Carefully, she stepped from the shower and pulled her uniform back over her head. Minutes passed. Finally her breathing turned to normal. There was no one out there. She was making it up. Living alone did that to her. Every noise sounded alien.

Nevertheless, she grabbed a glass bottle of bath salts, tested its weight, then threw open the bathroom door, letting it bang hard against the wall, bath salts held high, ready to take on any danger.

There was no one there.

But her front door was unlatched and she quickly crossed the three steps to take care of that mistake.

Her fingers were reaching for the lock when the front door suddenly slammed inward, sending her reeling. Inga staggered, her back hitting the opposite wall. A man stood in the aperture, his arms hunched forward, his head thrust toward her, breathing hard.

She shrieked in fright, and then he was upon her, his hot breath in her face, his body big and hard, his hand grabbing hers and twisting her arm in one swift movement so the bath salts fell to the hardwood floor and shattered, little lavender grains of sand flying everywhere.

“Witch,” he said, throwing her down so that her head cracked hard on the floor and she saw stars.

“Wait…wait…I have money…please…”

He was unbuckling his pants, humping hard against her. Determined. She knew he wasn’t hearing her.

“Wait! Please…!”

Part of her brain was disengaged. Her hand groped along the floor and landed on a sharp shard of glass. She grabbed it and jabbed forward, gouging the piece into his neck, pulling it out and stabbing again and again for all she was worth. She couldn’t let him win. Couldn’t!

In surprise he jumped back, clapping a hand to his neck, his eyes wide. He looked kinda crazy to Inga’s way of thinking and he threw his head back and howled like a beast. Then he hit her in the face till she was dizzy. She flailed the glass at him again and again until he ripped it from her hand.

She tried to scream but his hands circled her throat. “Burn in hell,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Her fingers scrabbled to loosen his hold but it was no use. His grip was too tight, too hard. Pinpoints of light swirled in front of her eyes. She fought against the darkness but it was no use. The pressure wouldn’t give. Wouldn’t quit. She tugged and tugged at his hands but he was too strong. Her trachea was clamped shut. She couldn’t breathe!

Couldn’t…breathe…

Oh, God. Please…

“Witch,” he spat and then Inga’s world circled and spun into blackness.

Her last thought was a regret that she wouldn’t get to be with Daniel after all.