Page 43 of Shadowed Witness (The Secrets of Kincaid #2)

Better get moving or you’ll end up sleeping here.

She blew out a breath and grabbed her purse and everything bag.

She thought about locking the Jetta’s door and decided not to bother.

Maybe it was lazy, but it would save her a step in the morning.

No one seemed interested in her things anyway—unless it was to send her a message.

If they wanted to use her car to do that, they’d just bash out a window or something, right?

The glow of a nearby streetlamp assured her no one lurked too close to her house, but it also left her feeling exposed as she stood on the porch trying to fit her key into the new dead bolt.

Something rustled in the yard, and she spun, palming her keys to use as a weapon if need be.

Nothing. She was being paranoid. The recent incidents and threats had spooked her.

She forced herself to turn back around and slow down. The key slid easily into place.

She pushed inside and nearly slammed the door shut behind her. She threw the dead bolt, then leaned her back against the door while she caught her breath.

Her vision started to blur, and she squeezed her eyes shut before dizziness could hit. After a moment, she opened them a fraction to test her vision. A little better. She needed to get off her feet. Now.

She made it to her recliner and collapsed into it, letting her bags slide to the floor. After engaging the footrest, she toed off her flats and grabbed her cell.

While she’d gotten intermittent texts throughout the day, her phone had started dinging in earnest once she crossed back into an area with good reception.

She should probably check those now. She turned her screen to the lowest possible brightness before checking the half dozen messages and squinting through blurriness to respond to the ones from family.

Begrudgingly, she did the same with the message from Eric.

He was only making sure she’d made it home safely.

She could give him that peace of mind. But as soon as that was sent, she set her phone aside and tried to do the same with thoughts of the detective.

She blinked away the blur. It had been a long day. The festival had been as enjoyable as ever, and her symptoms had been manageable overall. Her head still hurt, but it wasn’t anywhere near migraine level.

Sales had been decent too. And with tomorrow beginning the true weekend, chances were good they’d be even better going forward. She reached for her purse and pulled her sales log from it.

She’d sold very few of the big items, but the fingerless gloves had been quite popular.

The postcards had been the real showstopper though.

She looked at the bundled tick marks indicating the number sold.

Five, ten, fifteen ... Her vision started to blur again.

She placed a finger on the page and squinted, determined to finish her calculations.

Forty-seven. She’d sold forty-seven postcards. Not bad at all. If tomorrow went this well, she might sell out of them before Sunday. She hoped her family arrived in time to see her booth before it looked too picked over.

Would Eric come to the festival tomorrow too? After the amount of time they’d spent together this week, it felt odd to go a day without seeing him. But he was probably busy with the investigation, and, really, did she want to see him anyway? She wasn’t sure.

And she didn’t want to think about that tonight, she reminded herself. She replaced the sales log in her purse so she wouldn’t forget it tomorrow, then allowed her eyes the relief of closing. She really should go to bed. Every bit of rest she got could only help her make it through the weekend.

Problem was, her brain felt like it was stuck on a spinning wheel.

The commotion of the festival had allowed her to keep her mind off her troubles for much of the day, but now that she was in the quiet of home, everything was vying for her attention.

She might as well try to get something done. But what?

Editing photos was out of the question. If her vision couldn’t handle a moment of staring at a page, she certainly wouldn’t be able to spend any time staring at a screen.

Knitting, however, might be doable. After finishing the gloves earlier, she’d selected another pattern that she’d used several times before.

The cabled scarf was just complicated enough to require her to keep mental tabs on which row she was on, but not so complicated she would need to keep her eyes focused.

Might not even have to look at it much at all.

And while her hands were tired from the cumulative hours with her needles today, they were better off than her eyes.

Worth a try. And maybe the familiar motions would help her brain settle.

Much as she would prefer to stay in her seat, the overhead light needed to go. The lamp would be much easier on her eyes. She stood, waited until her equilibrium caught up, then made those adjustments. Might as well retrieve a drink while she was up. Did she want tea?

Yes. But she didn’t want to be on her feet long enough to prepare it properly, and microwaved tea wasn’t an option. She grabbed a bottled water instead and returned to the living room.

Her knitting bag already sat next to the recliner where she’d dropped everything when she arrived, so she settled in, then lifted the bag to her lap.

She pulled her needles out, leaving the skein inside, and surveyed her progress.

Scarves felt like they took absolutely forever, but she’d made decent headway in between customers.

Once she figured out which row of the cable pattern she should be on, she scooched down in her seat and closed her eyes as she worked. Her needles clicked in a quiet rhythm. Her brain, however, continued to spin.

Using her backup camera today had reminded her that she needed to order a new camera to replace the one that was destroyed Wednesday.

Should she order the same model, or should she upgrade?

She hadn’t had hers that long—only about six months.

Though she didn’t need to add to everything already on her plate, she would have to take time to do that research sometime next week.

A stitch felt off, and she cracked one eyelid open to assess the issue. Easy fix. She repositioned the needle and shut her eyes again.

Her mind strayed to Dion. Was he still okay? She prayed again for his safety. Then she prayed protection over her family. Heaven knew they needed it until this situation was resolved. She was less sure what to pray about the situation with Eric. Might as well just be honest with God.

I’m so confused about yesterday. Is Eric that angry beneath the surface? Or was yesterday just a fluke? I know everyone makes mistakes. I sure do, and you know that better than anyone.

Her prayer trailed off, her mind finally beginning to quiet. Apparently, God wasn’t going to give her a direct answer tonight. But she was okay with that. She just needed to know he had it in hand and remind herself not to make snap decisions based on her emotions.

Her fingers slowed, and her head began to droop. She caught herself with a jerk that sent a lightning bolt of pain shooting down her neck and into her shoulder.

This wasn’t working.

She set her knitting aside. As tired as she was, she’d start dropping stitches if she tried to keep going. She should go to bed.

Or she could just stay here.

Drowsiness won. She placed her glasses beside the knitting, then flipped the lamp off and snuggled back down in her chair.

A little while later, she awoke with a start. Had she heard something? She lay still. There it was. A scratching sound as if a key was being inserted in a lock. She reached for her phone. Felt yarn. A knitting needle.

The front door opened a crack. She froze, heart in her throat.

After a slight pause, the door swung inward. The hinges let out a low squeak.

The sound kick-started her brain. She launched from the chair, fingers closing around the knitting needle, and ran for the kitchen.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. She screamed. Her shoulder caught the doorframe. Before she could right herself, a hard hand landed on her other shoulder and spun her around.

Allowing the momentum to carry her, she grasped the knitting needle like a dagger and swung.

It sank in. The man yelled and released her. She lost her grip on the makeshift weapon. No time to worry about that. As his curses filled her ears, she turned and sprinted toward her bedroom, vaguely registering the clang of thin steel striking a solid object and bouncing to the floor.

She made it to her bedroom ahead of him, but not by much. She threw the door shut and turned the lock. It wouldn’t hold long. She tried to shove her dresser in front of the door even as the knob rattled. Too heavy. What would work as a weapon?

Moonlight illuminated the room just enough for her to make out shadows. Derryck’s bat. She grabbed it. Lifted it to her shoulder as the door splintered inward.

She put all her strength into the swing. The blow glanced off the man’s forehead. Something heavy clattered to the floor. He staggered back, hand held to his head. He growled.

“Get out!” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice.

The man hesitated, and she shouldered the bat again.

“What’s going on in here?” A voice sounded from the hallway. Cornell from next door. “My wife’s on the phone with the cops.”

The intruder hesitated only a second longer before he turned and fled, shouldering past the neighbor who’d come to her rescue.

“Hey!”

She couldn’t move. “Please let him catch him,” she whispered as two sets of feet pounded away from the bedroom. Something crashed. An engine roared. Tires squealed.

Someone headed back down the hall, and Allye lifted the bat.

“He got away.” Cornell’s voice again. He returned, rubbing his left shoulder.

She dropped the bat. Tried to catch her breath.

“Allye, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But her legs turned to water, and she slid to the floor.