“How did it feel?” the first demanded.
More banging on the door had her certain it would fly open at any second.
“How did it feel,” he repeated, “to kill your own husband…to have his blood all over you?”
The dispatcher was talking again, but Rory couldn’t listen. The blood roaring in her ears and the sounds outside blocked out everything else. Were those men the same ones who had come by before? Cade and Ronnie? The ones who had thrown the rock?
They had to be drunk or high. Surely they didn’t expect to get away with what they were doing.
Of course they believed they would get away with harassing her. She was theMurder Bride. She should still be in prison. The police would hate her even more for making them look bad.
A different kind of thud echoed next.
“What the hell?” a voice—one of the two paintball gun guys—demanded.
More sounds she couldn’t quite distinguish…hollow and quieter but still thud-like noises.
She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare say a word. The voice on the phone was asking her if she was all right, but she couldn’t answer.
A knock on her door followed by, “Rory, it’s Chance. You okay in there?”
She scrambled into a standing position, her legs nearly asleep from squatting so long. “I’m okay.”
Evidently the dispatcher thought Rory was talking to her. She said, “The police should be arriving now.”
“My friend is here now too,” Rory said. “He’s on the porch. I’m opening the door.”
The dispatcher was telling Rory not to open the door just yet, but it was too late, she already had. Chance was there. On the porch, lying motionless, were the two men. Blue lights flashed on the street. A patrol car roared up behind Chance’s car. Rory’s knees went weak. She leaned against the nearest wall.
“They’re here,” she said to the dispatcher. “I’m on the front porch with my friend. The two men who were harassing me are down.”
Rory didn’t wait for her response. She ended the call.
“Put your hands up where they can see them,” Chance said to her, his voice quiet.
Almost immediately one of the officers shouted those same instructions as he approached, weapon drawn.
She and Chance waited, hands up, until the two uniformed officers climbed the steps and visually assessed the situation.
“Ms. Harris?” The one who had shouted the order looked her up and down once more.
“Yes. I’m the one who called.” She gestured to the guys face down on the porch. “Those are the men who were shooting paintballs at my house and shouting for me to come out.”
The second officer had walked around the end of the house.
The one on the porch steps motioned to Chance with his flashlight. “Who’s this?”
“Chance Rader,” he said. “I’m a private investigator working for Ms. Harris. I’m staying at the motel down the street. She called and told me what was happening. I told her I was coming right over, but I suggested that she call you as well. When I arrived, the men were beating on the door and shouting profanities. I disabled them, and then we waited for you to arrive.”
“Are you armed, Mr. Rader?” the officer asked.
“I am not.”
The officer shifted his attention to Rory. “Are you armed, ma’am?”
“No, and there are no weapons in my house.”
Discounting the kitchen knives that had belonged to her aunt. Rory felt sick at the idea that the police would likely use that against her somehow if they searched the house.
