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Her mind scrabbled for anything she might reach that could be a weapon. Trying to find a knife of her own in the drawer would have been hopeless. She had a sudden, absurd image of them fencing. En garde. The bowl felt silly, useless, but without it she’d have nothing. If she could get that far, there was an African sculpture in the living room, tall and heavy. Ebony, she’d always thought, or ironwood. She could use it as a club.
But she wouldn’t get to it in time. Unless she could shake him up.
“Why the mask, Keith?” Except for a rasp, she almost sounded conversational.
He froze in the middle of a prowling step forward. She shuffled back two.
“Sorry,” she said, “but this scene is too late. I’ve already told the detective.”
“He won’t be able to prove a thing. I’ll be long gone.”
Two minutes. Had it already been two minutes, or only seconds? Beth had no idea.
“If your little sister hadn’t blabbed, I’d have had no idea you remembered.”
“If my sister hadn’t blabbed—” she kept inching back, sliding her feet to stay balanced “—when the police came, you could have said, Sure, Christine and I were lovers. How could they have proved you’d killed her?”
He shrugged as he took a longer step than any of hers. “Who knows what they found with her.”
“I do.”
“Really?” There was a smile in his voice. “I was careful, you know. But forensics keeps improving. Better safe than sorry.”
If Tony looked in the kitchen window, would he be able to see Emily? Dear God, what if he’d taken the key to her place from his ring?
He could break the window.
“Why did you kill her? What could possibly—”
He sprang forward so fast, she stumbled but still swung her clumsy weapon. By some miracle it connected with his arm enough to deflect the knife but not to stop him. He kept coming, thrusting toward her torso. This time, she lifted her broken arm to use as a shield. The blade slid off the cast. Beth lurched back, realized she was in the living room.
Please come, Tony.
* * *
TONY WASN’T HAPPY that Emily would be there, but he needed to get Beth’s story. He could use it to justify asking Mrs. Reistad for an interview. Was it enough for a warrant to look for Reistad’s pencil drawings—and the bat that had come in contact with Beth’s bare skin? Probably not, he thought ruefully, turning into the alley. But they were getting there. Beth had thought the bat was wood, so the chances were excellent that the state lab could lift enough skin cells to confirm it was the weapon used in the attack. Maybe fingerprints. The assailant had worn gloves, but people often forgot they’d had to touch a weapon when buying it or stowing it at home or in the trunk of the car.
Tony’s usual visitor slot was occupied. He recognized the Volkswagen Golf from that first Sunday. Damn it. He had to back up to get to the one open parking place he saw. He was taking it even if it said residents only. No, he’d gotten lucky—it was the same one he’d used during last night’s useless bodyguard stint.
More out of anticipation than urgency, he jogged to Beth’s unit, where he rapped firmly on the door.
He didn’t hear a thing. Nobody came to let him in, which was strange. Frowning, he raised his hand to knock again but checked himself. The prickles on the back of his neck were probably premature, but he didn’t like what he was thinking.
Then, tipping his head, he identified something he’d been hearing. It sounded like a far-off train whistle…except it was coming from behind this door.
Now adrenaline shot through his body like a bolt of lightning.
“Shit!” He tried the knob and realized the dead bolt was thrown. He dug in his pocket for his keys.
* * *
THE KNOCK ON the door made Beth jerk, although she didn’t know how she’d heard it through the roar in her head and the sound of her own screams.
Reistad froze. “Who is it?”
Backing away slowly, she let out another ear-splitting scream, praying Tony would hear her even though she knew how well-insulated her townhouse was. She was almost to the bookcase where the African statue of a tall woman carrying a basket on her head was displayed. A real weapon. Except she couldn’t swing it effectively like a bat, not with one hand.
