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A noise from the hallway?
But all of the dogs were in here with her.
She swallowed and muted the television. On the screen the host and his guest were laughing uproariously though the TV was silent.
Violet strained to listen over the beating of her heart.
She heard nothing.
Not a sound.
But she felt as if something were wrong. Very, very wrong.
Don’t let your nerves get the better of you.
Not a sound.
Beside her, Honey was stiff, her big eyes focused on the door.
Jesus, the damned dogs were freaking her out.
Che growled.
Trix snarled again.
This was no good. No damned good.
But probably nothing.
Had to be nothing.
Licking her lips, she tamped down her fear. The house was locked tight. She was sure of it. She’d checked the doors and windows herself. Hadn’t she? No one could get in . . . well, unless they slipped through the doggy door in the kitchen or . . . oh, crap! The outside door to the garage. It was usually bolted shut but Leonard sometimes forgot to secure it when he took out the garbage and, of course, the inside door between the house and garage was always kept unlocked.
Her pulse inched up a notch, but she fought the anxiety whispering through her.
No reason to panic.
Yet.
Licking her lips again, she slowly opened the drawer to her nightstand, found her glasses, and slipped them on, despite the fact that they were blurry from the wine. Then, she silently retrieved her pistol. For a second, she flashed back to the first time she’d held a gun. That night. Two decades earlier. But then she’d held a pellet pistol in her palm. This heavier gun was the real thing, a Smith & Wesson 9mm Shield, a semiautomatic that could do real damage. She flipped off the safety, her fingers curling over the somewhat sticky grip.
Oh. God.
Swallowing hard, trying to clear her fuzzy mind, she slipped out of the sheets. When Honey started to follow she ordered, “Stay,” under her breath, then turned her gaze onto the other two dogs, who were now standing in their beds, and hissed, “Stay!”
It’s nothing. They most likely heard the neighbors . . . or maybe a mouse . . . or something, just not an intruder. Please, God, not an intruder.
She pressed her bare feet into her slippers and started for the door, nearly stumbling and dropping the damned pistol.
Get it together.
Another bark from Che.
“Shhh!”
Scraaape.
From the other side of the door.
