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Chapter 4
After making sure all her doors were locked, Lainey took a long shower to wash away the stink of soot and fire and fear. Then she boiled pasta and opened a jar of marinara. But the red sauce flooded her with memories of Ron, lying in blood in the mess hall.
She screwed the lid back on, shoved the jar to the back of the refrigerator and opened a jar of pesto instead. Her stomach queasy, she made herself a salad and forced herself to eat. She only managed a few bites.
As she cleaned up, she rewound the day’s events in her head, still having a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that Ron was dead. She was free. She should be ashamed of the sense of release that poured through her, but she wasn’t. Relief that Ron Martin wouldn’t hurt her again was her only emotion.
When the kitchen was in order, Lainey sat on her couch and watched an old favorite television show on cable. She marveled at how quiet her house was. How peaceful it felt.
Tonight was no different than last night, except for one thing -- Ron was dead, and she didn’t need to be constantly on guard. Constantly alert. She could finally relax.
And if that was callous and insensitive, so be it. It was reality. Even after she’d thrown Ron out of the house, she’d worried. Wondered where he was. Feared he’d come after her.
When the noises outside the house had begun a week ago, she was sure it was him. She’d called the sheriff every time she woke with a start and heard the scraping along the side of the house. The thumps against the siding. And every time, one of the deputies came out and found nothing.
Lainey hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since the noises started.
Tonight, she was sure she’d sleep like a baby.
When her eyes began to droop as she watched her third episode of Castle, she turned off the television and got ready for bed. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
In the middle of the night, a thud from the back of the house jerked her out of sleep and made her shoot straight up in bed. Her fingers fisted around the quilt, she sat frozen. Listening.
Her breath caught in her throat at the squeak of the kitchen doorknob. She fumbled on her nightstand for her phone and punched in the speed dial she’d created for the sheriff. When the dispatcher answered, she whispered, “This is Lainey Dearborn. 323 Ranchview Road. Someone’s trying to get into my house.”
“Stay on the line, Ms. Dearborn, and I’ll send out a deputy.”
The line went silent, and Lainey ended the call. Dialed Brody.
He answered after one ring. “Lainey. What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s trying to break in,” she whispered. “I called the sheriff, but I promised I’d call you, too.”
“I’m on my way,” Brody said immediately. “Be there in less than fifteen minutes.”
Lainey sucked in a breath. She trusted Brody far more than the sheriff. And right now, fifteen minutes felt like a lifetime. “Okay, Brody,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t do anything until the deputy arrives,” Brody said, grunting. She imagined him yanking his faded jeans over his narrow hips. Shoving his big feet into his battered boots. “Stay out of sight. Do you have your gun with you?”
“No,” she said, trying without success to tamp down the tremor in her voice. “With Ron gone, I didn’t think I’d need it. It’s in the living room. Still in my purse.”
“Could you be seen through a window if you went to get it?” Brody asked.
Lainey swallowed. This was real. Someone watching her. Trying to get into her house. Brody telling her to get her gun. “Maybe,” she finally said. “I have to go past the kitchen. He might see me through the window.”
Over the phone, she heard a car door slam, and moments later Brody’s truck engine roared to life. After a long moment when the only sound was the growl of his truck’s engine and the crunch of tires on the driveway, Brody finally said, “Get the gun, Lainey.”
“Okay,” she said, sliding out of her warm bed and stepping on the cold hardwood floor. Clutching her phone so hard that her hand ached, Lainey snatched her robe from the chair where she’d tossed it that morning and wrapped it around herself.
It didn’t warm her up. She shivered uncontrollably, every inch of her body stiff and icy-cold.
“Do you have it yet?” Brody demanded.
“No,” Lainey replied, her voice as shaky as her hands. “I needed to put on my robe. Now I’ll get the gun.”
Only the sound of Brody’s even breathing came through the phone. It steadied her as she tiptoed to the bedroom door. Peered around the corner into the kitchen.
No one was visible in the window over her table, so she scurried to her purse on the end table, and removed the Glock with shaking hands.
