As they walked up the sidewalk, a dog barking gave Rory pause. But the sound was coming from inside the house. By the time they reached the steps leading up to the porch, the door had opened.
A woman, mid-thirties maybe, stood there, a small, furry dog clutched in her arms. “Can I help you?”
Chance removed his credentials case from the pocket of his brand-new blue jeans. The cream polo shirt he wore looked good with his tanned skin. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to recognize that he would look good in just about anything. She chased away the thoughts. Her mind was tired, obviously. Shecouldn’t stay on track. As for her wardrobe choices, she had selected jeans and a blue pullover. Sneakers and socks. Extra jeans and shirts as well as underthings had been purchased for both of them as well. Chance had swiped his credit card and assured her it was not a problem. She hadn’t been shopping in over two years. The prices had surprised her. As long as she stayed out of prison, she would need a whole new wardrobe. And a roof over her head and a job. She felt suddenly exhausted.
But first, she had to get her life back.
“My name is Chance Rader,” he was saying to the lady. “I’m from the Colby Agency, and this is Rory Harris. We’re looking for Alita Whitmore or Carla Allston. It’s about the home invasion that happened about two and a half years ago.”
“I’m Alita Whitmore.” The woman hesitated a moment. “You’re not a cop,” she said to him. Then she glanced at Rory. “I know who you are. You’re the one who killed your husband.”
Rory moistened her lips. “I didn’t kill my husband. Two men broke into the place where we were staying. I was raped, and my husband was murdered. I think it may be the same ones who broke into your home. I’m trying to make the police see that there are other cases that could be connected. That’s why we’re here. I need your help.”
The other woman blinked. The hesitation that followed had Rory certain she intended to send them away. Then, “All right. Come in.” She moved away from the door, leaving it open for them.
Rory followed, Chance right behind her. The home was nice. Smelled of baked goods. Even after having breakfast, the scent had Rory’s stomach sending messages of hunger. It had been so long since she’d been able to enjoy something as simple as the smell of muffins baking or bacon frying. She was so incredibly grateful to have this opportunity—no matter how difficult.
And Chance—she looked at him as he smiled for the woman who had kindly invited them into her home—wouldn’t let her down. Not the way everyone else had.
When they were all settled around the living room, Alita, her dog still cradled against her, looked from Rory to Chance. “How is it you think I can help?”
“Can you tell us,” Chance said, “what happened in your case? Start at the beginning, if you don’t mind.”
Alita was a beautiful woman. Long red hair, green eyes. Her fair skin gave her an ethereal quality. She was short, like Rory, but a little heavier…more muscle than anything else.
“We were home that night. Nothing special about it,” she said with a glance at Rory. “We weren’t celebrating anything. Just sitting back watching television after dinner. It was kind of late, close to midnight. We’d watched the last three episodes of a series we’d both fallen in love with. It was Friday, so neither of us had to go to work the next morning.”
“You’re a teacher,” Rory said, the thought just now popping in her head. “I’m a teacher as well—was a teacher.” She was an ex-con now. The realization sat like a rock in her belly.
Alita nodded. “High school algebra. Carla is a teacher also. Physical education.” She laughed. “She keeps me on my toes. We have an entire bedroom devoted to workout equipment.” Her smile faded. “But after that night, we took several self-defense classes too. We realized that being strong wasn’t enough. We needed to know the weak spots…the places to strike.” Her gaze narrowed. “I’d like to see anyone try that crap again.”
Rory spoke up then. “I intend to do the same.” At least she did if she wasn’t sent back to prison.
“You should. Anyway,” Alita went on, “we had just decided it was time to go to bed when the back door burst open. Everything suddenly went crazy. Carla and I were screaming. She lunged at one of the intruders, but he knocked her out cold. The other guygrabbed me and dragged me to the bedroom.” The fingers of her right hand massaged her dog as if her story had made the animal nervous. More likely she was the one who needed the mindless action.
“Were you drugged?” Chance asked.
At this point, the only details about the case they knew were the ones released to the media, which did not include specifics.
She nodded. “The police called it needle-spiking. They used a typical date rape drug, Rohypnol, but injected it, so it worked faster. Once it kicked in—which was damned fast—my memory gets really foggy.”
Chance asked, “Did either of the intruders use a Taser?”
Alita shook her head. “Just the drugs.”
So no Taser but the same drugs, injected the same way. At least for Rory. She couldn’t be sure about Pete. She’d been told repeatedly that there was no indication of injections on either of them, but she vividly remembered a needle prick. Obviously most of what she had been told was lies.
Rory bit her lip and worked up her courage to ask another of the questions that had stuck in her head. “This may sound like a terrible thing to ask, but did the man who attacked you seem nervous? Shaky?”
Alita frowned, appeared to dig deep for the memory from that awful night. “No. Not that I noticed. Is that how he was with you?”
Rory nodded. “Thinking back, it seems odd.”
The other woman shrugged. “Maybe they were in a hurry that night and he was nervous. Here, with me, he was cocky. Forceful, cruel. Over time I’ve tried to put it behind me…to understand somehow what makes one human want to hurt another so I could get past it. I guess I’m still working on that part.”
Rory couldn’t see the people who murdered her husband as anything other than monsters.
“Can you describe what either man looked like?” Chance asked.
