IN HIS KEEPING: CLAIMED
: Chapter 2

The sound of creaking wood woke her. Followed by clicking metal as though the doorknob was being turned back and forth. Was she dreaming? Was this a nightmare? Hell no! She sat bolt upright in bed, now wide awake. Someone or something was on the front porch. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute when she reached under the bed and grabbed the shotgun. Then pulled open the drawer in the nearest nightstand and felt around for the handgun she’d placed there. She couldn’t remember which one it was, but thought it might be the Glock 9mm. She ran her fingers over the cold metal trying to recall if this was the gun that didn’t have a manual safety. She couldn’t remember. Her mind was a complete blank. She stood up and slipped the gun into the pocket of her flannel pants. She opened the tin and felt around for the box containing the shotgun shells. It figured. It was on the bottom. She pulled out four and pocketed them. She couldn’t imagine having to reload, but she was taking no chances.

Afraid to turn on the light, she reached for the phone and dialed 911. When a voice at the other end answered, she whispered into the phone that she thought someone was trying to break into her house. The woman asked her to speak up, but Sylvie was scared whoever was outside would hear her. She gave the dispatcher the address several times, but the woman said she couldn’t understand what she was saying and kept asking her to repeat it. All the while the metal clicking was getting louder. Something bumped hard against the door. Sylvie laid the receiver on the table to keep the connection open, then lifting the shotgun and stepping into her slippers, she walked slowly down the hall toward the living room.

It wasn’t unusual for bears to come up on a porch to raid the bird and suet feeders or go poking around for garbage. But turning a doorknob? Trying to push in a door? That sounded like an intruder of the human kind. She wished now she hadn’t installed the nightlights. Whoever it was would see her coming. The shotgun was much heavier than she remembered. But then the last time she’d held it her arms weren’t shaking and she wasn’t scared shitless. The small figure carrying the big gun halted at the end of the wall. She took in a big gulp of air and peered around it, eyes fixed on the door. When she moved closer to look through the window, Sylvie could see something black moving around on the porch. It was hunched over right in front of the door. Maybe it was a bear after all. She was trying to get to the window when she stumbled over the coffee table sending the metal tin crashing to the floor. The creature turned its head, its big, bulging, round eyes glinting as they reflected the light from inside. Something was wrong with its mouth. Its lower jaw was small and appeared misshapen. It jutted out from the neck as though broken. Whatever it was, she was pretty sure it wasn’t human. Startled when it saw her staring at him, the creature quickly turned away, knocking over the popcorn tins she’d placed beside the door earlier. It bolted, jumped off the porch, and ran off into the woods. Sylvie put down the shotgun and grabbed the tin off the floor. She opened it and pulled out a string of firecrackers and a book of matches. She unlocked and opened the door, then, stepping outside, lit the firecrackers and threw them in the direction the bear had gone. The night exploded with loud pops, cracks, and booms. Hopefully that would teach the critter not to come around here anymore. She gave a sigh of relief and turned to go back inside when she realized the porch light hadn’t come on. She was sure it was turned on. The motion sensor should have flicked on the lights before the bear even got to the porch. Maybe the bulb had blown out. She reached up to unscrew the bulb. It was loose. She turned it three or four times and the light came on. That was weird! She was about to go in when she looked down expecting to see paw prints in the snow. She gasped when she saw a boot print instead. Heart pounding, she rushed back into the house, slammed, then locked the door. Sylvie retrieved the gun and ran back into the bedroom to grab the phone.

‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there? She yelled into the receiver.

‘Yes. I’m here. Where did you go?’

‘Outside. I thought it was a bear, but it wasn’t. There’s a boot print in the snow on the porch. Somebody tried to break into my house!’ Sylvie was nearly frantic.

‘Where is he now?’ the woman asked, worried.

‘He ran off into the woods. But I don’t know if he’s really gone. He may still be out their hiding. Can you please send someone over? I’m afraid he’ll come back.’

‘The sheriff’s deputies are on their way. We got the address from your phone number. Try to stay calm and make sure all the doors and windows are locked.’

‘My kitchen door is broken!’

‘Did the intruder do that?’ The woman asked, concerned, her voice going up an octave.

‘No, it was damaged in the storm. It hasn’t been fixed. The new door is on order, but hasn’t come in yet. I’ve got some chairs piled in front of it. But if he pushes against it he could still get in!’

‘I heard some loud noises over the phone. Was that gunfire? Did you shoot at him?’

‘No, it was firecrackers. I thought it was a bear and I was trying to scare him away. But I do have a gun. A shotgun! I think he saw it. I think that’s why he ran away.’ She was shaking, the words and phrases coming out in frightened gasps.

‘Try to take a deep breath. You need to calm down. Help is on the way.’

Just then Sylvie heard the sirens. ‘They’re here.’ I think they’re here.’

‘Can you see them?’

‘Yes, a police car just pulled up.’

‘You’re in good hands then. Let the officer in. He’ll want to talk to you.’

‘Thank you.

‘No problem. You take care now. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’ Sylvie hung up and hurried toward the door.

Before the officer even reached the porch steps, the door flew open and Sylvie came running out. Words poured out of her mouth in a torrent. About the bear with the huge shiny eyes and the funny jaw, the porch light being fiddled with, the sound of the jiggling door knob and creaking wood waking her up, the boot print in the snow, the gun frightening him off, the knocked over popcorn tins, the firecrackers…

The officer tried to take it all in. He nodded, repeatedly telling her to ‘slow down and take a breath.’ He was a big man, at least 6’3′ or 6’4′; young, maybe 28 or 29. One look told her he’d been in the military. Something about the way he carried himself. He was unemotional and by the book, hardly the empathetic sort. An attempted break-in might be a big deal to her, but it obviously wasn’t to him. She was talking, but he wasn’t paying attention, only half listening. Instead, he spent his time waving his flashlight around. He walked over to the porch and stared down at the boot tread still visible in the snow. Stowing the flashlight in his jacket pocket, he pulled out a cell phone and took a couple of pictures. He flipped through the photos on the screen. Satisfied that they were neither fuzzy or out of focus, he put the phone away. Retrieving the flashlight, he focused the beam of light on two sets of footprints. One coming and one going. The tracks started and ended in the woods at the back of the house. It was thick with stands of pine, maple, birch, and sumac. He aimed the light at the tree line and panned it slowly first in one direction and then the other as though searching for something. Movement maybe. Unable to detect anything, he walked slowly around the house.

Scared to be left standing by herself, Sylvie nervously followed him. She couldn’t remember if he’d given her his name. Wasn’t sure if he was a town cop or part of the sheriff’s department. She’d been so scared and preoccupied that she hadn’t noticed what it said on the side of his car or on his shoulder patch either. It didn’t matter. He was here to help. That’s all she needed to know. She was sticking to him like glue!

Satisfied that the intruder hadn’t doubled back, the officer shifted his attention down the hill to the road. He concentrated the beam of light on the shoulders. Looking for a disturbance in the blanket of snow. What was he looking for? Tire tracks?

Sylvie was impressed. She was out in the middle of fucking nowhere and yet the cop had gotten here in only a few minutes. There wasn’t a police station or sheriff’s substation nearby that she knew of, so he must have been on patrol somewhere close by to get here that fast. He was standoffish, but seemed to know what he was doing. She was grateful for that. He had everything under control. Now all she had to do was get her heart to stop racing and she’d be all right.

He began walking down the hill toward the road with Sylvie hurrying after him, trying to keep up. He turned on his heels and stared at her reproachfully. Sylvie was shaking. ‘You need to go back in the house. You’re going to catch pneumonia out here dressed the way you are.’

Sylvie looked down. She cringed when she realized what she was or rather wasn’t wearing. She’d forgotten to put on a jacket or shoes before she ran outside to meet him. She was still in her PJs and slippers. No bra. No underwear. Her nipples, stiff from the cold, were poking against the thin fabric of her tee shirt. Her flannel pants riding low on her hips. She could feel cold air on the bare skin of her lower back. Yikes! Her boobs were definitely flashing him high beams and for all she knew her ass crack was on display as well. She was mortified. Now that he mentioned it, she suddenly realized she wasn’t so much shaking in fear as shivering from the cold. Sylvie was freezing. The fuzzy cloth slippers she was wearing were wet with snow. As were the hems on her pant legs and the shoulders of her shirt. She felt like an icicle, her toes and fingers going numb.

‘Please go back to the house and leave this to me,’ he said sternly, indicating he expected to be obeyed. ‘I’ll be in to talk to you in a little while after I check some things out.’ She hesitated. He could see the panic rising in her eyes. ‘You needn’t worry. Whoever it was is long gone. You’re safe. I’ll be right outside. Go on now. Go inside and warm up.’

Sylvie nodded, then quickly scanned the surrounding woods apprehensively before booking back to the house. Behind her she heard the crackling static of a radio and him talking to someone. She raced up the stairs and disappeared into the house.

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably when she started loading the woodstove that protruded from the fireplace opening. She threw in some fatwood she’d found and a couple of pieces of kindling, then lit them. As the flame flickered and grew brighter she tossed on four small round logs, each no more than three inches across. She added some colorful wax-coated pinecones sprinkled with gold and silver glitter. There was a whole shoe box full of them in the laundry room. Sylvie had made them years ago. She used to collect pine cones, dip them in melted candle wax, and roll them in glitter. Then put them in old strawberry baskets lined with red and green tissues paper, tie a ribbon on them, and give them out as Christmas presents to Tiz and her family. That was during her crafty period, when she was in junior high. They had to be 12 or 13 years old. She hoped they still worked. Sylvie stood shivering, waiting for the fire to catch. When the wax began to melt, the logs burst into flame.

He’d been out there nearly a half-hour now. She had no idea what he was doing all this time. Sylvie kept getting up every few minutes to check on his whereabouts. She’d run from room to room to peer out the windows trying to locate him, or rather the round circle of light from his flashlight. Then he disappeared. Last time she spotted him, he was heading into the woods following the footprints. Since then she hadn’t seen him. His car was still here, but she was getting worried. There was a big star painted on the side of it. He was with the sheriff’s department. Suppose the robber, intruder, or whatever the hell he was, was lying in wait in the woods and had jumped the cop? Maybe the bulgy-eyed creep was out there now, waiting for her to let down her guard. She locked the door and grabbed the shotgun. Sylvie kept wondering if she should go out and try to replace the policeman or maybe call 911 and tell the dispatcher that the cop she’d sent out on the call was currently MIA.

She was mulling over what to do when she heard vehicles pulling into the driveway. Jumping up to look out the window she saw two patrol cars pull in. One belonged to the sheriff’s department, the other had no markings. The men who got out didn’t stop at the house but hurried off into the woods. Sylvie wondered what was going on. Had they caught him already?

A little while later she saw them coming up the driveway from the road. This time they knocked on the door. The first one in was a silver-haired, heavy-set, older man, maybe in his late 50s. He was followed by a tall, mid-fortyish fellow. The deputy walked in last. She knew something was amiss by the way they looked at her.

There was a barrage of questions. They wanted to know how long she’d lived here. And were surprised she’d only been here two days. They asked her where she worked and where she’d lived before. When she told them Park Ave. they looked skeptical and asked for the address. She couldn’t see why that was relevant, but had nothing to hide so she told them. Sylvie explained that she’d been employed by a bestselling author and had been living in his penthouse while she edited his novels and worked at his publishing house in the city. No sooner had the words left her mouth, then it suddenly dawned on her that if they checked out the address, they might stumble on a record of the 911 call she’d made. The one where she’d told the dispatcher she was trying to escape an abusive relationship. Way to throw Connor under a bus! She hadn’t meant to besmirch his name or get him in trouble. All she wanted to do was get away. How was she to know this was going to happen?

The cops were very interested in why she left her old job and moved here. ‘Peekamoose Road is a long ways from Park Avenue. What brings you here exactly?’ She didn’t think what happened between her and Connor was any of their business, but she wasn’t going to lie about it either. Sylvie explained about being left the house by her aunt and that she and her boss had once been romantically involved. She told them the affair, God how she hated that word, had ended badly; and that on Saturday night she’d tendered her resignation. She explained she already had a new job lined up with a rival publisher that allowed her to work from home. And since the house was just rehabbed and sitting empty, she decided to move here. While Sylvie answered the older man’s questions the other two looked around the living room. She couldn’t help noticing the shocked looks on their faces when they realized that they were surrounded by clay male and female genitalia and couples engaging in all types of sexual activity. The young deputy’s face was red as a beet as he studied the figures lining the shelves, table, and floor.

‘My aunt was a potter,’ Sylvie explained. ‘She specialized in pre-Columbian art reproductions,’ she said, pointing to the raunchy pots, ‘and prehistoric Venus and phallus figurines. She sold them to museums and private collectors.’ The deputy wouldn’t even look at her, he just nodded. His face showed disgust. It was apparent he didn’t think much of her aunt’s artwork. Must be a prude!

‘Who knows you’re living here?’ the older man asked.

‘No one,’ she answered emphatically, a little too emphatically. She could almost see the cop’s antennae going up.

‘No one?’ he repeated. ‘Why’s that?’

How do you explain to a man that your heart’s been broken and you need time to get over it? That you need to be alone, incommunicado, so you can lick your wounds and figure out how to get on with your life. Men didn’t get this kind of stuff…it wasn’t on their radar. But she gave it a try anyway. She told him her family was in the dark about where she was because she didn’t want to talk about the breakup. She said they’d been bugging her to come home for Thanksgiving, but that she’d resisted. She needed to be by herself for a while. Put the affair behind her and move on. Damn! There was that word again! But what else could she call it…a flirtation or a fling? She damn sure couldn’t call it a romance! You need two people to have a romance. Unfortunately, she was the only one who’d signed up!

The man must have had a daughter, because he seemed to understand. ‘Are you sure no one knows you’re here? Your boyfriend maybe?’

‘No. He definitely doesn’t. He’s been calling, texting, and emailing me 24/7 trying to replace out where I am. It wasn’t him.’

‘You can’t be sure of that. You said you didn’t get a good look at the intruder; that you thought it was a bear. Tell me about your boyfriend, your boss. Was he possessive?’

Sylvie hesitated. Does a bear shit in the woods? ‘Yes, he was possessive,’ she admitted, putting the emphasis on the word was…as in past tense. ‘But he’s been seeing other women.’

‘That don’t mean much. Some men want to have their cake and eat it too, if you know what I mean. You said he’s trying to replace you, so I’m assuming he’s not pleased you left. Tell me Miss Jenkins, is your ex vindictive, the kind of man who’d come after you? Punish you for leaving?’

‘He wouldn’t do anything criminal if that’s what you mean. He’s upset, but he’ll get over it.’

‘Will he now? Was this boyfriend of yours abusive? Verbally? Physically? Did he ever hit you?’ He was lobbing questions at her rapid fire.

Did blistering her ass count? Sylvie didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Connor certainly had his faults, but not what the cop was implying? He’d spanked her…yes. But he’d never abused her. Hadn’t slapped, punched, or beaten her. ‘No! He wouldn’t do this!’ she reiterated, trying to sound convincing. ‘I thought it was just a break-in. The cottage has been empty since my aunt passed away last spring. It was damaged by the storm last month. It’s just been remodeled. When my aunt was alive she told me it wasn’t unusual for summer people to have their camps and cabins ransacked over the winter. That when they closed up for the season, thieves, teens, and vagrants would sometimes take over the property. Burglars would break in and steal whatever wasn’t nailed down: TVs and guns, appliances, copper pipes, portable heaters and fans, anything they could get their hands on and cart away. She told me that high school kids broke into camps to throw parties. They’d drink, do drugs, have sex, and then trash the place. She also said there were several homeless men in the area that camped in the woods in the summer and moved into vacant camps in the winter while the owners were back in the city. She said they never did any harm, just wanted a warm place to stay. Couldn’t that have been it?

‘No. I don’t think that’s it at all.’

‘Why?’ she asked, clearly alarmed.

‘First off, it’s a school night. Kids have their parties on weekends so they can lie to their parents and tell them they’re going out to a movie or shopping or spending the night at their friends. Second, your car is parked in the driveway. Kids around here are dumb. But not that dumb. Same is true for someone wanting to rob the place. Robbers don’t normally come around if they think someone is home. And when they do show up, they bring a truck or car to haul away their loot. What was the thief going to do, carry your TV and whatever else you’ve got here out on his back? Not likely. His car was parked a half mile away.’

‘You found his car?’

‘No. We found where it was parked. We followed his trail through the woods. There’s a burned out shell of an old cabin in the woods down the road. There’s an overgrown cow path that leads to it. It’s not visible from the road.’

‘The old Smalley place?’

‘Yes. I believe your right. I think that was the name of the people who owned it. Burned down 10 or 11 years ago. There was a long piece of chain stretched between two posts that blocked the driveway entrance down by the road. It was supposed to keep trespassers out. But whoever it was came prepared with a set of bolt cutters. He cut the chain then drove all the way in and parked behind what’s left of the cabin. He walked through the woods to get here. The only way it makes sense is if he thought you had something of value here that was easy to carry. Money, guns, jewelry, or drugs.’

Sylvie glared at him. ‘I don’t do drugs! And as for jewelry, I’m wearing the only real gold in the house.’ She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers so he could see the rings. ‘They were my aunt’s and I don’t think they’re worth all that much. There are several guns in the house. They belonged to my aunt. She kept them for protection.’ Sylvie braced for the blowback, sure they would fixate on the guns: where they were kept, whether or not they were licensed; but it didn’t come, so she continued. ‘I don’t have much money, much cash,’ she corrected herself. ‘Just what’s in my purse.’

‘No credit cards, checking accounts, bank accounts.’

‘I have one credit card. It’s in my purse. I keep my check books and other bank accounts in the bedroom drawer.’

‘Plural?’

‘Plural? I don’t understand what you’re asking?’

‘You said check books and bank accounts, indicating more than one…plural. You have money, but it’s just not here? It’s in a bank? Is that right?’

Sylvie nodded.

‘Just how much money do you have?’ he asked his eyes narrowing to appraise her. When she didn’t answer, his tone became impatient. ‘I’m not asking because I’m nosey, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s my job. I’m trying to figure out why someone in his right mind would risk breaking into a house that they can plainly see is occupied.’

Sylvie looked rattled. She felt almost embarrassed to tell them. Didn’t want them to get the wrong impression of her. ‘I’ve got quite a bit actually, close to a half million dollars.’

The older officer whistled. The other two jerked their heads around to look at her. ‘Well that’s a motive if I ever heard one. Tell me little lady. Where did you get that kind of money?’

‘I inherited it from my aunt.’

‘So your aunt was wealthy?’ He pondered that for a moment. ‘Are you the only heir?’

‘No. She gave bequests to everyone in my family.’

‘They all got a half million?’

‘No. I got the house, property, and a larger inheritance than the rest.’

‘Why was that? That must have caused hard feelings and family squabbles?’

‘Not at all! All the bequests were confidential. This place was a real dump before the storm. No one in my family wanted it. They were fine with my inheriting it. We had no idea she was wealthy. She hardly ever bought anything new. She dressed like a bag lady. We thought she was living on Social Security, a military widow’s pension, and what she could get selling her pottery. We had no idea how successful she was. According to Mr. Pearly…’

‘Roger Pearly?’ the middle-aged officer interrupted.

‘Yes. He was my aunt’s attorney. According to him, she left the bulk of her estate to me because I was the only relative who was close to her. Who regularly came to visit over the years. My family is from Wyoming, south of Rochester. They’re busy with schools, jobs, and kids. None of them ever made the time to come see her. She was sort of strange. A little eccentric. So they tended to avoid her.”

‘Hmmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘How about the people around here? Did they know she was rich?’

‘I doubt it. I wasn’t kidding when I said she looked like a bag lady.’

‘Well, there must have been some people who knew she had money. Tellers at the bank. Word has a way of getting around. Maybe they thought she was hiding cash in the house?’

‘That’s doubtful. A month ago this place was a wreck. A tree fell on the house and destroyed the roof and most of the interior. If there’d been any money hidden in the house, the workers who rehabbed the place would have already found it.’

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘Did you tell anyone you inherited a lot of money?’

‘I haven’t told anyone. No one knows.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you. I’m sure when the money was transferred into your accounts, a whole lot of people found out about it.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. If you’ve got bank accounts…you must have ATM cards.’

She shook her head.

‘No?’ he asked incredulously.

‘The accounts here were just switched over. I haven’t gotten ATMs for them. I’m not sure the kinds of accounts Mr. Pearly set up for me work like that. The only ATM I have is for a little bank in Saranac Lake where I used to live and I haven’t used that in three months.’

‘Wait! What did you say about Saranac Lake? I thought you said you lived in New York City?’

Sylvie sighed then gave him the five minute ‘sanitized’ version of why she moved from Saranac to the city…conveniently leaving out any mention of the murder investigation and playing up her ‘overseeing’ the publication of the first book in the series.

He frowned while he listened then harrumphed. ‘OK, so maybe he didn’t come here to grab your ATM cards and start making withdrawals. What about those guns you were talking about. How many are there?’

‘A shotgun. Three rifles. A flintlock. And four handguns.’

He looked shocked. ‘That would sure be an incentive to some people. But still, thieves don’t want to break into an occupied house where the people are home. Especially if they’ve come to steal guns. The assumption is if the homeowner has a cache of weapons in his or her house, he or she knows how to use them; ergo you do your breaking and entering while the ‘armed’ homeowner is away. There’d have to be something here worth a whole lot of money for them to be willing to take such a risk and break in with you still in the house. There’s nothing else of value here except for the guns, right?’

‘Actually, there’s the pottery,’ Sylvie said, cringing as they turned their attention to the pornographic pots.

‘Are you joking ?’ the older man looked at her skeptically. ‘How much is that kinda stuff worth?’

‘I can’t say exactly. But since she died, my aunt’s pottery has appreciated in value and there are a lot of collectors looking to purchase her work. There’s an art buyer hounding me to come up and buy the pieces I don’t want. What you see is probably worth anywhere from $10,000 to $25,000. Maybe more.’

‘Do tell,’ he said, snickering to himself as he eyed a particularly large phallus. ‘I guess that might qualify as a motive. Who knows they’re here?’

‘I really don’t know. Pearly. The buyer. She may have told some of the collectors that I had a number of pieces. I sent her some pictures of them today. There’s no way of knowing who she may have shown them to.’

‘I’ll need her name and number. Can you get it for me?’

As Sylvie left the room to retrieve the number from the notepad by the kitchen phone, she heard the front door open and muffled conversation. When she came back a few minutes later they were standing under the porch light. ‘I’m not buying it,’ she heard one of them say. Sylvie stiffened. Didn’t they believe her? Did they think she made this up?

The three of them came back in and shut the door. During the previous conversation the two younger men had deferred to the older officer. Now it was the middle-aged fellow that asked the questions. ‘I don’t think whoever it was came here to rob you Miss Jenkins. The tire tracks indicate that he was driving a car or very small SUV, not a truck. If this stuff is as valuable as you say, it would need to be boxed and packed up to prevent damaging it. You’d need a small pickup truck or a van to haul this away. There’s no indication of that. There was only one vehicle parked down at the cabin. Whoever it was didn’t want you to see him. Why else would he have loosened the light? You said you originally thought it was a funny-looking bear. That he was all black, from head to toe, and had big round eyes. He went to a lot of trouble so he wouldn’t be seen or recognized. Miss Jenkins, I don’t think he was here to steal your money, or your guns, or your artwork. I think whoever it was came here for you. Whoever it is. I think you know him. That’s why he was in disguise. My guess…it’s your ex-boyfriend, trying to put the fear of God into you and scare you into going back to work for him in New York.’

‘No!’ she insisted. ‘He’s not the type of man to go slinking around in the dark. He’s as arrogant as they come. He’d think that kind of behavior was beneath him. Trust me, if he knew I was here he’d simply bust down the front door. He’d dispense with all the sneaking around.’

‘If you say so. Then maybe you’ve got a stalker. Someone who followed you up from the city.’

A shiver went up her spine. ‘Why couldn’t it just be a homeless person? After my aunt died that car was parked in that same spot for months. Maybe they didn’t think anything of the car being here and that’s why they tried to get in.’

‘It wasn’t a homeless person, Miss Jenkins. The tread on the boots looks new, like they’ve hardly been worn. I’d venture to guess they’re Doc Martens. Too expensive for your average homeless man. And the tread on the tires…no wear at all.’

‘All right then,’ she countered, starting to get agitated. ‘Maybe it was a robber. With an accomplice waiting in the car. One man came to the house and was supposed to signal the other guy when the coast was clear so he could bring the car around. That makes sense doesn’t it?’

‘No,’ he said, staring at her, his face grim. ‘There was only one set of footprints going to and from the driver’s side door.. We’re sure he came alone.’

‘What about a peeping Tom?’ she asked, not wanting to believe what he was telling her. ‘Couldn’t it be someone like that?’

‘Your lights were off. You were already undressed and in bed. It’s unlikely. Besides, peeping Toms hide in the dark and peek in windows; they don’t come through the front door bold as you please!’

Sylvie flopped down on the couch. Her legs were trembling. They wouldn’t hold her up anymore. ‘So you think someone came here because they knew I was here alone. That they wanted to hurt me in some way?’

‘If it’s not your ex, then it’s the only thing that makes sense. Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt you?

Sylvie nodded then blurted out everything, the whole preposterous story. About the murders. The police investigation. And a maniacal serial killer running around loose.

By the time Sylvie finished, it was clear that they hadn’t believed a word she’d said. Convinced it was her ex trying to scare her, they were annoyed that, for whatever reason, she refused to admit it; and was covering for him. They said as much, telling her they couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t come clean and tell them the truth. Certain she was stonewalling, and not willing to waste any more time on the matter unless she cooperated…they up and left!