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If it was Roger, how had he died? Had it been an accident? Had he committed suicide?
Don’t be stupid! How could he bury himself under floorboards? she thought.
Who would have wanted to kill Roger?
Marty, for one, she thought, opening the front door, and then she paused involuntarily to look back over
her shoulder, as if expecting Sean to rush her, as he had last time she came home, but there was still no sign of him.
But why on earth would Marty bury him in Johnny’s house? She had never been there, she knew nothing about the place.
You know it wasn’t Marty! a voice in her head said grimly, and she shivered. Yes, she knew it wasn’t Marty who had killed Roger.
Across the street the black man in the parked blue van was watching her. Their eyes met and then he looked away. She frowned. There was something odd … intent … about the way he watched her.
Oh, stop imagining things! she told herself. He only looked at you. Every stranger you see isn’t a killer.
All the same, she began to close the front door hurriedly. Until she heard a movement in her kitchen.
She froze, listening.
There it was again, the sound of a footstep.
There was somebody in the house. Her heart began to beat painfully under her ribs, her breathing dragged.
Then it dawned on her that it must be Sean – why else was his car parked outside, empty? Yet how would he have got in here?
Oh, well, that would be easy enough for him. He had been in and out of the house for days; nothing simpler than to make a copy of her key when she wasn’t looking, that would be no problem for him, and how many times had he watched her punching in the code of her alarm? Damn him, he had a hell of a nerve.
Rage flared inside her. How dared he break into her home? She’d a good mind to call the police and charge him with burglary.
But at the same time she felt a dew of relief break out on her forehead. Thank God he was here, anyway; she could tell him what was bothering her, the crazy thoughts she had been having ever since she heard the TV news.
There was a faint rattle from the kitchen – he was putting on a kettle! she worked out. Making himself tea, no doubt. Good God, anyone would think he lived here! He seemed to think he could walk in and out of her life as if he owned her.
But her anger was only skin-deep; she was far too pleased to find him waiting for her to really care how he had got in! But she would make him jump! Careful not to make a sound, she closed the front door and tiptoed towards the kitchen, then paused as she passed the open sitting-room door; she could see a pair of legs in black jeans.
She knew at once that they were Sean’s legs, unmistakably Sean’s, and her heart constricted as though squeezed by a giant hand.
He was lying on the floor, not moving. She took a shaky step nearer and saw his hand flung out, palm upward in a gesture of helpless weakness. In the kitchen, someone was whistling.
The hair stood up on the back of Annie’s neck. Who was in the kitchen? And what had happened to Sean?
She knew the answer to that, but she didn’t want to face it yet. It would hurt too much. The whole universe seemed to have slowed to a crawl; she was barely breathing, let alone thinking.
She could have turned and run back to the front door and out into the road, but she hesitated, watching Sean’s hand, the long, strong fingers strangely still.
Was he dead? She couldn’t get out without knowing. She bit down on a cry of agony. Oh, God, don’t let Sean be dead!
On tiptoes, she ran into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible, and knelt down beside his body, looking at his face in a spasm of dread. Sean was very pale, his eyes closed. He was unconscious, but breathing, she saw, with a rise of the heart. Putting her fingertips on the side of his neck, she felt the deep pulsing of his blood. Thank God; he was alive.
On the floor beside Sean lay a small bronze statuette of a horse she had once been given by a famous theatre director. Tracy kept it highly polished.
Now the base was smeared with blood.
She felt sick. Dark blood matted Sean’s hair on the back of his head. She touched it tentatively, trying to part the hair so that she could see the site of the wound; the blood was no longer seeping out, it had stiffened in the thick strands of hair, but the red came off on her fingertips, making her shudder.
There was a movement across the other side of the room; Annie looked up in terror, her blue eyes dilated, glazed, enormous.
