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How long did they keep their victims alive? A day, a week? Longer?
Logic told her a week at most, and probably less. Holding a person by force took time, effort, attention. Food and water, unless denying both was part of it.
But for Terry, less than twenty-four hours had passed. There was room to hope.
And time, she told herself as she reached the mudroom, to put it aside for a few hours. Obsessing about it wouldn’t help Terry, wouldn’t comfort Hallie.
She started to unlock the door, then glanced over, let out a whoop!
She took another step forward to admire the chairs, the sweet umbrella table, the Elsie-can’t-resist pots of pansies.
Different style of chairs than the porch, but the same vintage, the same feel. Maybe paint them navy, and the table coral.
She started forward, just to sit, remembered the pizza.
She’d take it in, get out the wine, spruce herself up just a little. Then she and Nash would sit on the patio, just like she’d imagined.
She unlocked the mudroom, stepped inside.
The minute she stepped into the kitchen, she knew someone had been inside her house.
She always left the faucet on the right side of the double sink. Now it hung over the left. The fruit bowl on the counter wasn’t centered, and the fruit in it jumbled.
Someone had been in her house, and as she drew her weapon thought: And maybe still was.
Taking a step forward, she swung toward her office. Empty, but her laptop sat crooked on the desk.
Leading with her weapon, heart skipping beats, she swung right, then left. Listened, listened, listened, but heard nothing. Her floors creaked here and there, something she found charming. But she heard none of that.
She walked to the front closet, sucked in a breath and flung the door open. No one, but someone had been in or looked in there. The hangers had been pushed to the side, her winter uniform hat sat sideways instead of straight on, and the scarf she’d made for herself, gone.
No one broke into a house to steal a scarf.
She checked the pocket of her winter parka where she kept a twenty for emergencies.
Gone.
She shut the door, scanned the living room. No cobalt bowl she’d picked up antiquing with Sari years before. No slender green vase Drea had given her.
She’d clear the house, call it in.
She started to step back when she heard someone pull in. She expected Nash, walked to the door.
And through the window saw the dark blue van, and the woman getting out of it.
And the face clicked, a key in a lock.
Clara. The doctor—Marlowe—called her Clara. A nurse manning the ER desk at WVU hospital.
She stepped onto the porch. With the gun held to her side and just behind the door, Sloan opened it.
“Oh, I’m so glad somebody’s home! I’ve gotten so turned around I don’t know where I am.”
“Is that right?”
“My sense of direction doesn’t exist!” As she laughed, Clara’s eyes flicked over Sloan’s shoulder. Even before she heard the soft creak, she spun around.
He rushed toward her, a syringe in one hand, a gun in the other.