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ched with exhaustion, she knew sleep would elude her. Not that she could sleep here anyway. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, the water had. The insurance company was going to love her for making another claim so soon.
She walked through to the living room and locked the front door. The bomb’s damage had been confined mainly to the bedroom. Parts of the living room had been scorched, but it was more water damage out here. The books she’d salvaged after the first bombing had borne the brunt of the second. It was doubtful she’d be able to save anything this time.
She walked into the bathroom. After taking a quick shower, she filled a large overnight bag full of clothes, collected her toiletries and the few jewelry items she had, then left.
And she had no intention of coming back, unless it was to clear out the rubbish and hand over the keys to the new owner.
Half an hour later she walked into her office.
“Computer on,” she said, dropping her bags on the floor beside her desk.
Izzy’s image flicked to life. “Morning, sweetness.”
“Iz, I want you to run a check on the seventeen Greenwood adoptees. See if anyone besides myself and AD Stern has requested information on them.”
“It might take a little while.”
“Time is something I have plenty of.” Sam leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. The first thing she’d better do was find a new place to stay. Somewhere secluded, perhaps. At least if she was bombed again, there’d be no neighbors to disturb.
“Could you also dig up an accommodation guide for the Melbourne metro area?”
“Onscreen, sweetie.”
She spent an hour scanning through the list and arranging appointments, and then she grabbed a coffee and several painkillers in an attempt to ward off the growing aches in her stomach and head. No one had ever told her having periods was so damn painful. But then, her education in that regard had come from computerized health books, not from a mom who could impart the real facts.
Izzy reappeared on the com-screen. “Search results in. There’s only been one other request for information, I’m afraid.”
One was all they needed. “Who?”
The purple boa twirled for several moments. “One Michael Sanders, State Police.”
“Michael? Not Michelle?”
“Yep.”
The killer was female; that much was certain. Still, that didn’t mean this Michael wasn’t an accomplice. He was certainly worth talking to.
Not that she’d be talking to anyone but Sanders’s boss. “Iz, make an appointment for me to talk to Sanders’s captain, then send the information to AD Stern’s wristcom, and cc it to Director Byrne. Mark it urgent.”
“Consider it done, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on the desk. Her eyes ached beyond belief, and everything else seemed to thump. It was nearly eight in the morning. Time, perhaps, to catch a nap. Certainly she was in no danger of being caught. Gabriel was the only one who seemed to know the location of her broom closet.
“Iz, turn off the lights and lock the door, will you? And cancel any screen calls. I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s urgent.”
The room went dark. She closed her eyes.
And dreamed.
She stood in the middle of an empty room. Whiteness surrounded her, so bright it made her eyes water. Though the room was empty, she was not alone.
He was here.
Though she couldn’t see the hirsute stranger, his presence filled the room—a powerful, unseen shadow that circled slowly around her.
“Why have you called me?” she said.
