His footsteps echoed faster than earlier as he crossed to the door. He paused with his hand on the push bar. “If I were you, I’d decide whether you want to step into the light with your narrative or try to live in the shadows with mine.”
The bell chimed as he left, then silence filled the gallery.
Erica remained standing for two rapid heartbeats before her legs gave way. She lurched to a chair and dropped into it.
El Paso had started like this. With speculation. When her name came out, the circus at her home lasted for months. She couldn’t go through that again.
With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone and pulled up Coop in her favorites.
It rang. Once… Twice…
When it went to voicemail, her free hand curled into a fist.
“Vince,” she said after the tone, fighting for calm. “Call me when you get this.”
She ended the call and sat motionless. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen. A few weeks of support shouldn’t erase the strength she’d built. But she couldn’t pretend the small taste of normal didn’t mean everything.
Her gaze shifted to the still-open front door. She hurried to it, turned the locks, then switched off the lights row by row until the gallery stood in shadow. For a moment, she felt exposed under the streetlamps filtering through the window.
“Step into the light,” she repeated. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Holt. But no, thanks.”
She didn’t like the light. When it found her, it stripped her apart. That was why she’d moved four times in ten years.
But the shadows were getting dangerous again.
Erica activated the alarm system then dug through her purse for her pepper spray. She gripped it firmly as she headed outside. The street was quiet. For a second, she imagined someone watching from across the street. She scanned quickly, saw no one, but her thumb moved to the trigger as she hurried to her car, never so glad for keyless entry.
Chapter 20
She slowed as she passed the Wilson house. As usual, it was dark. With each passing day, the place showed more signs of neglect. Weeds along the walkway had grown taller; the grass was now ankle high. With no one to stop them, mail and newspapers piled up by the door.
Erica drove by the Dwyers’ house next. Their porch light blinked erratically, as if it were about to burn out. She’d run into Eileen yesterday in the produce section at H-E-B. Her daughter and Cheyenne were friends.
“The girls have been talking,” Eileen had said, voice low. “Cheyenne isn’t herself… but how could she be after all that?” Then, with a troubled glance. “A property management company stopped by the other day. Looks like they’re getting ready to rent it out. But who would want to live in a murder house?” She let out a shaky sigh. “I can’t believe this happened on our quiet little street. It’s horrible.”
Horrible didn’t begin to cover it, especially for Cheyenne. Losing both parents so young, and so violently, was unthinkable. Erica hoped she’d find peace away from here.
She pulled into her driveway then sat in her car. Coming home with him the other night had felt different—safer, warmer, and far less empty. Heat climbed into her cheeks. She still couldn’t believe she’d as good as jumped him after the cookout.
A tingling along her spine snapped her upright. That feeling again. Of being watched.
She scanned the block but saw nothing obvious. No idling vehicles or dog walkers. And no late-night smokers. She rarely used the garage, but tonight, she pressed the remote on her visor.
The door lifted slowly, revealing the clutter inside: stacked canvases, easels, and paint supplies, leaving barely enough room to pull in. She stayed in the car until the garage door sealed behind her. Right before it did, a furry gray blur darted inside.
Whiskers wound himself around her ankles the moment she got out of the car, meowing plaintively.
“Bet you’re not as hungry as I am,” she murmured, bending to scratch behind his ears. “Come on. Let’s go see what we can find.”
Inside, she dumped her phone, purse, keys, and pepper spray onto the kitchen counter. Then she checked her locks and reset the alarm. Her house should have felt secure. Yet unease clung to her like static.
“Pull it together,” she muttered.
Her stomach growled. And no wonder. It was nine thirty, and she hadn’t eaten since her morning coffee and granola bar.
She turned toward the kitchen, already inventorying the contents of her fridge in her head. As she passed her front window, a flicker of light caught her eye. She paused.
It couldn’t be lightning. The sky was clear, and West Texas hadn’t seen rain in weeks. Maybe the Dwyers’ porch light had given out.
