Page 16

CHAPTER ONE

Her gut twisted. She wasn’t alone. Someone else was in the house.

More floorboards creaked somewhere downstairs.

Summer Stratton couldn’t tell exactly which room the sound had come from since she wasn’t very familiar with the place, only having been inside it on a handful of occasions. The house belonged to her longtime best friend, Dani Granger, who was now deceased.

Murdered .

Summer refused to believe that Dani’s death had been a convenient accident.

Was the killer the same person creeping around now?

In the upstairs primary bedroom, Summer stared at the box under the bed. Checking the contents would have to wait. Switching off the heavy black flashlight, she stood up and stilled. The only thing sparing her from being plunged into total darkness was the moonlight filtering in through the parted curtains of one window.

Something crashed downstairs in the back part of the house, making her jump. Whatever it was had been big and heavy. Must’ve been knocked over. Possibly in the kitchen.

Then silence.

Despite the July heat trapped in the house, cold sweat trickled down her spine.

Wind hissed through the old house, causing its bones to rattle and squeak. Branches from the trees around the place clattered, scraping against the siding. A storm was gathering. The massive evergreen close to the window stood like an ominous sentry in the shadows.

She had hoped to find what she was searching for, sneak out and make it back to the small cabin she’d rented on the outskirts of Cutthroat Creek before the rain started and without being discovered.

Two fails.

But could this one misstep cost her life?

A thump echoed in tandem with a screech downstairs. Glass or porcelain shattered. Maybe the intruder had bumped into something. Had the noise come from the living room?

That was the one space in the house crammed with tchotchkes and collectibles on every surface like mini booby traps.

The noises had started in the kitchen and were now coming from the living room, she supposed. He was working his way through the house, from back to front.

She wasn’t sure if she should move and try to hide. The old floorboards might give away her position.

Rain pitter-pattered on the roof. Pulses of lightning flashed outside, illuminating fat beads of rain quivering down the windowpanes. The wind picked up, rustling the branches, and the mixture of noises made it hard for her to pinpoint the location of the footsteps in the house.

Thunder cracked. The rumble was in the distance, shifting closer. As the sound faded outside, another one rose inside—the groan of the stairs.

A shiver scuttled over her body like a legion of icy spiders.

He’s coming up .

Summer glanced around the bedroom for her purse that had her pepper spray. She never left home in Seattle without a canister of Mace and had been sure to pack several in her bags, even putting one on her key chain during the seven-hour drive from Washington to Montana.

No handbag in sight. She swore to herself as she remembered where she’d left it.

Her purse was downstairs. With her Mace. On the coffee table in the living room. Right along with her cell phone and the keys to her car that she’d hidden in the woods.

Another slow creak from the weight ascending on the risers set her pulse pounding.

The man creeping up the stairs stood between her and all possibility of calling for help and getting rescued. Between her and the sole weapon she’d brought to defend herself. Between her and freedom—the only way to escape.

Standing there, she was rooted in place by fear, with a virtual bull’s-eye on her forehead. The guy in the house could be there to simply scare her away, give her a more forceful warning.

But deep down she suspected that was wishful thinking. The reality was she’d already been warned. Several times.

Anything could happen to her out here. He could do anything to her. Hurt her, or worse.

Kill her.

She shook her head, needing to calm down and think clearly. Shuffling around in haste and leading him straight to her wasn’t a much better option either. She strategized, planned, thought things through ad nauseam.

Rushing always led to a regrettable choice.

Lightning flashed again. Within seconds, there would be thunder. That was when she’d hide. Hopefully, the noise would be enough to mask the sound of her movements.

Summer waited. The storm was drawing nearer. Thunder would come sooner than the last time.

Down the hallway, a door squeaked open. He was up on the second floor.

A boom bellowed loud enough to rattle the windows.

Summer gave in to the flight response flooding her system and dashed across the room on the balls of her feet to the back wall, where there were two closets. She chose the second one, closest to the windows, farthest from the door, and ducked inside, shutting it as quickly and quietly as possible.

The primary bedroom was the last one at the far end of the hall. Eventually, whoever was skulking around inside the house, searching for her, would make their way down there and find her.

Then what?

Panic flared hot. She felt around gingerly, frantically, for a baseball bat. A golf club. A shotgun—not that she knew how to use one. Something she could use to protect herself, doing her best not to knock anything over by accident. Only clothes and hangers in the closet.

No weapon within easy reach. Her heart sank.

She’d been warned to stay away, to stop poking her nose where it didn’t belong, to go back home to Seattle. Better to be safe than sorry. That was what she’d been told.

The house was being watched or she was. Either was bad. But it was undeniably clear that one, most likely both, were under surveillance.

Going to the Granger house late at night, under the cover of darkness when she’d normally be asleep, had seemed like a good idea. Until now.

Breathe. Think. Going off the deep end isn’t going to do you any good.

No help was coming. She hadn’t told anybody that she was going to the house tonight. Not her sisters or her parents. None of them lived in Montana. It wasn’t as though they could run over in the nick of time even if she had her cell phone to call them. Or 911. Not that a call to the local authorities would go well, because technically, the sheriff would consider her a trespasser.

There weren’t even any neighbors within screaming distance for her go to, provided she could get out of the house. In fact, the closest one was a couple of miles down the road.

Her stomach lurched as the hopelessness of her predicament set in. She was all alone in the middle of nowhere, with someone in the house who wanted her to stop investigating.

Dani had already been silenced. Maybe this time the murderer wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, too.

Tightening her sweaty grip on her Maglite, she tamped down her despair. She needed to think of a way out of this. Alive and hopefully unharmed. Clutching the flashlight to her chest, she clenched her fingers around it. The long handle was thick and heavy-duty and might suffice as a makeshift weapon in a pinch. She was certainly in a sticky situation. One she intended to survive.

This was costing her everything. Summer was on the brink of losing her dream job with a top law firm and possibly her life, all for the sake of exposing the truth and for justice. For Dani.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus.

Get out of the house by any means necessary. Grab keys. Mace. Run to the car.

That was the plan, albeit a flimsy one, but it would have to do.

Floorboards near the bedroom groaned. Heavy footfalls entered the room and stopped. Adrenaline swamped her, and she struggled to listen through the roar of her drumming pulse in her ears.

A jarring screech made her flinch. Sounded like he moved something. The bed? She covered her mouth with a hand to keep from screaming.

Footsteps crossed the room. Toward the corner, on the other end of the wall. Hinges squeaked as a door opened. Hangers scraped on the metal rod. He was checking the closet.

A cold tightness threaded through her sternum while a greasy sliding sensation took hold in her stomach. He would move on to the next closet and find her. Impossible to hide.

Fight and run. Stick to the plan.

Thunder roared overhead, making the house shudder, the loud booms resonating in her bones. Through the fading rumble, the sound of footsteps thudding across the hardwood carried. Each one drawing nearer. Steadily. Slowly.

The walls closed in. Her stomach roiled.

Oh, God . She could do this. Had to. No other choice.

Summer braced herself, holding the flashlight tight, and prepared to attack whoever was on the other side of the door.

The heavy footsteps edged closer, approaching the closet, and stopped in front of the door. A dense knot swelled in her throat. Hands shaking, she tasted acid fear on her tongue.

The doorknob twisted with a creak.

She shoved on the door with all her might before he fully opened it as a cry cracked loose from inside her. The surprising force jostled the person back. Then she saw him. A man wearing a ski mask.

Summer swung the flashlight, hitting him in the head. She kicked him, going for the groin. The guy doubled over with a grunt and cursed her. She swung the Maglite again, whacking the back of his skull and knocking him to the ground. She didn’t waste a second. Whirling around, she bolted for the door. Dashed from the bedroom.

Bang! A blast of gunfire split the air, the deafening sound chilling her to the bone.

Was she hit? She wasn’t sure but didn’t stop running.

It took a second to register that she didn’t feel any pain. She kept moving. Down the hall. To the stairwell.

Summer grabbed the railing and hit the steps as another shot exploded, the bullet striking the wall, bits of plaster erupting with debris hitting her face. Screaming, she hunched and instinctively covered the back of her head with the hand that held the flashlight.

She might not be so lucky if he fired again.

Footsteps pounded after her, closing the distance between them. The terrifying sound made her stomach clench and bile burn her throat. Could she make it? She didn’t stop racing down the steps, one hand gripping the rail to prevent her from tumbling down face-first. Adrenaline pumped hot in her veins. She was almost at the bottom of the stairwell.

Then came two more blasts.

And her luck ran out as searing pain slashed through her.

* * *

Logan Powell had pulled his truck up in front of his cousin’s house and cut the engine when he heard the unmistakable sound.

Gunfire!

Even through the rain and the low music in the cab of the truck, he was certain it had been a gun’s report and not a clap of thunder.

But no one was supposed to be in the house. His cousin Dani was dead, as well as her parents. Her next of kin was their uncle, Ric Granger, who was back home in Wyoming, and Dani’s friend Summer Stratton was staying in a place she’d rented near town.

He jumped out of the truck into the pouring rain so fast he didn’t take the usual precautions of calling 911 first. Drawing his service weapon from the holster on his hip beside his badge, he charged toward the porch, getting soaked.

Bang. Bang.

In the quick muzzle flashes that lit up the darkness inside the house, he spotted someone running from the bottom of the landing, being chased by another person barreling down the stairs.

Logan stormed up the porch, his steps soft and stealthy, and almost kicked the door inward. But he had the element of surprise to his advantage and didn’t want to give it up unless necessary. He tried the doorknob. It turned. Unlocked. With his Glock at the ready, he swept inside the house.

Noises of a violent struggle came from the living room—grunting and panicked screams, flesh being hit, items clattering to the floor. He hurried deeper inside, glancing at the stairway and noting bullet holes in the wall, and rounded the corner into the living room.

A guy dressed in all black with a ski mask covering his face grabbed a woman from behind and yanked her around. The woman was fighting back. She stomped on the guy’s foot and threw an elbow into his gut. The guy swore, hurling threats, but didn’t let her go.

The two were locked in a deadly tussle. Logan didn’t have a clear shot—no way to guarantee he didn’t hit her by accident. He holstered his gun and charged forward, his boots crunching on broken porcelain.

The assailant whirled at the sudden noise, letting the woman go.

Logan tackled the gunman and rammed him hard enough to send them crashing to the floor, but the woman fell with them. Her legs were caught beneath them as they fought.

Blow for blow was exchanged. Needing to prevent the other guy from shooting him, Logan kept the masked man’s wrist holding the gun locked in a tight grip. Still, Logan took a solid hook to the jaw and tasted blood, but he didn’t pay attention to the pain since he was more focused on delivering his own. He managed to grab the guy by his shirt and yank him to the side.

Free, the woman scrambled up from the floor. She was panting, her dark hair wild, scanning the room as though she was looking for something. He caught a glimpse of her face.

Summer?

He’d met her once, years ago, but couldn’t be sure it was her in the dim light and the frenzy of the attack.

Logan threw a knee in the masked man’s stomach and punched him in the face while the woman scooped something up from the table and dashed toward the kitchen. They wrestled, the two of them both trying to climb to their feet. The assailant smashed his head into Logan’s face, nearly breaking his nose. The blow left him reeling. His hand loosened on the man’s wrist, and he reached out to steady himself. The edge of something bit into his palm.

A glint of silver flashed in the moonlight as the masked man raised the gun.

Logan wrapped his fingers around the object his hand had found—a long, broken shard—and swung it around, stabbing the man in his wrist.

Howling in the pain, the guy staggered back, but didn’t drop the gun on reflex. He lashed out with the pistol, giving Logan a sharp rap across the head with the weapon. Stunned, Logan dropped to a knee and pulled his Glock at almost the same time.

In a blur, the masked man spun and ran for the front door. His footsteps pounded down the steps, the sound fading beneath the rain.

Logan swallowed blood and stood with a groan. For a second, he worried that the woman had fled out through the back door and might run into whoever had attacked her. He hurried through the dark house to the kitchen.

The refrigerator had been knocked over. With the top resting on the edge of one of the counters, the fridge blocked the back door. She was up on top of the counter, prying open the window above the sink.

“Hey,” Logan said, hurrying up behind her, and touched her arm. “Are you hu—”

She kicked back, throwing a foot in his gut and whirled, her right hand raised.

Logan registered the can of pepper spray in her grasp. Too late.

The blast of stinging mist him in the eyes and nose. “Oww!” Flinging his hands up, he ducked away, trying to avoid the worst of the spray. Still, some got into his open mouth. Gasping for clean air, he couldn’t haul in enough. He stumbled backward, his stomach heaving. Through the burning that blinded him, he yelled, “Stop.” Sucking another sharp breath at the combination of his stinging eyes and his skin on fire, he coughed and choked. “I’m a cop.”