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  Seething with impotent anger was useless, though, so she did her best to put it and her worry about Emma and everything else aside except for her immediate objective of obtaining some clean clothes so that she could go to work tomorrow and pay the rent and utilities and buy food and gas, as she stepped out onto the small back stoop.

  The sky was purple now, and the cicadas were singing. Someone nearby was grilling: she could smell the cooking meat, hear the laughing voices of children, the murmur of cheerful adult conversation. Somewhere happiness was in the air, and Riley looked in the direction of the cookout almost wistfully. Then reality bit: in her world, she had things to do, and darkness continued to close in. The sun was gone, and the long shadows that lay across the ground were merging until soon they would swallow everything.

  Riley stood where she was for a moment longer, savoring the solitude, taking a deep breath of the still-sweltering air as her gaze carefully swept her surroundings.

  The one truly positive thing about the scruffy subdivision where Margaret’s house was located was that, except for the street out front, there was no place for TV trucks to park, or camera crews to camp out, or reporters to hide. The small patch of scorched grass that was the backyard was surrounded by a tired chain-link fence that was all but hidden by a dusty vine, and it abutted a number of other tiny yards just like it. The one-story houses were so close together that if they didn’t keep the drapes drawn at night they could see into each other’s windows. Living in such unassuming surroundings wasn’t a stretch for Riley, who had grown up in even less prosperous circumstances, but for Margaret and Emma—and Jeff—it was like being plunked down on the moon.

  Pushing Jeff’s image away for the time being—thinking about him hurt too much—she stepped off the stoop and walked quickly in the opposite direction from the driveway, which was packed with cars, then let herself out through the creaky metal gate on the far side of the house. When they had arrived home after the funeral there’d been quite a crowd out front, but by this time it had largely dispersed. Two TV trucks remained, she saw as she cast a cautious glance toward the street, but only one camera crew was visible.

  They were set up on the sidewalk opposite the house, apparently conducting a running commentary on God-knew-what while keeping their camera trained on the front door, probably in hopes that someone gossip-worthy would enter or leave. A marked police car idled near the camera crew, and another drove slowly down the street, moving away from her. Parked cars lined the curb in both directions and a few people—­neighbors or gawkers, Riley couldn’t be sure which—stood around on the sidewalks talking as they cast occasional glances at the house.

  Being the focus of the scandal-mongers sucked.

  Congratulating herself on her foresight in parking her car around the corner and exiting through the back door, Riley slunk through the neighbors’ front yards, careful to keep well away from the street. She didn’t have far to go, but by the time she was halfway there she’d made the unwelcome discovery that she really didn’t like being alone outside in the dark anymore. The shadows seemed to be closing in on her, and she kept thinking she could hear something sneaking along behind her. There was nothing there, of course—she checked—but by the time she saw her small white Mazda her pulse was racing and she was breathing way faster than she should have been. A shivery sense of unease kept her glancing over her shoulder even as she unlocked the car. She was starting to mentally chastise herself for being a coward, when it hit her:

  Somebody murdered Jeff.

  Under the circumstances, being scared wasn’t only justified: it was smart.

  That thought did not help her calm down. In fact, it made her go cold all over, despite the oppressive heat.

  Glancing back, Riley could see the lights of the camera crew across from Margaret’s house. Most of the nearby houses had lights on inside them now. What she took from that was, there are people nearby. A scream would bring them running. Not that there was any need to scream: no one had followed her, no one was even close. It was dark, but not so dark she couldn’t see well enough to be sure of that.

  They don’t have any reason to come after you. You never even worked at Cowan Investments.

  Unless they knew she had Jeff’s phone, and wanted it. Or thought Jeff had told her something. Or were killing Cowans for fun or profit. Or—

  Stop it.

  Yanking the door open, Riley got in, slammed it shut, hit the lock-doors button, started the car, and took off way faster than she normally would have done toward her apartment. And tried not to let the impossible-to-shake feeling that she was being watched completely terrify her.

  — CHAPTER —

  FOUR

  “You suppose she’s in for the night?” Bax asked as he carefully maneuvered the Acura into a vacant spot on the street outside Riley’s apartment building.

  It was a busy street, full of the kind of tall, boxlike structures that had been built all over Houston in the commercial real estate boom toward the end of the last century. Restaurants and offices and small shops occupied the lower floors of the buildings, and apartments and condos took up the upper floors, so there was plenty of activity, perfect for going unnoticed.

  “Don’t know.” Finn’s voice was tight with irritation as he watched her stride across the parking lot and come around the front of her building. Still in her funeral clothes, she looked haunted under the pale glow of the security lights. She was moving fast, and she gave a couple of quick, searching looks around that made him frown. He was confident she hadn’t made them, but something seemed to have spooked her. Even from a distance, he could almost feel the waves of tension she was giving off. “We need to get this damned thing fixed or replaced now.”

  He tapped the blank screen of the mobile receiving unit that was propped on the console between the seats. About the size of a portable GPS, voice and/or motion activated, it was designed to monitor the roving bug that had been turned on in her cell phone. The bug allowed Finn to listen in on her mobile calls, of course, and also to track her anywhere she took her cell phone and listen to any conversation anywhere that cell phone was, even if the phone was powered off. He liked the technology because it was simple to use and it was almost impossible to detect.

  Unfortunately, not long after they had started following her away from her mother-in-law’s house the receiver had stopped picking up her phone’s signal, which had led to a harried chase along the freeway and through the city streets. Finn was now discovering that the bug also wasn’t working to track her present movements, or pick up any sound.

  One possibility was that the receiver was dead.

  The other was that during the course of the drive she’d disabled her phone the same way she’d disabled Jeff’s.

  If that was the case, there could be only one reason: she was afraid of being followed.

  And instead of being interested, he was now officially downright fascinated.

  To his annoyance, for the moment Finn’s only recourse was to track her visually. As Bax picked up the receiver and started fiddling with it, Riley pushed through her building’s revolving door, slim legs flashing, bright hair gleaming beneath the warm interior lights. For another moment he was able to watch her through the building’s wall of windows as she walked quickly across the lobby, heading no doubt for the elevators. Then she was out of sight.

  Invisible to him.

  Which was not good.

  She could do anything. Talk to anybody. Disappear.

  Damn it to hell and back anyway.

  * * *

  HER APARTMENT was cool and quiet and dark. Two of those things Riley welcomed. The third—darkness—made her shudder. She banished it by flipping the light switch the minute she stepped inside her door. The overhead light came on, as did the two fat white ginger jar lamps on either side of the couch. A quick scan of the premises allowed her to relax a little. Her apartment was small, with a galley kitchen, living/dining room combination, one bedroom, and one and a half
baths—and she could see most of it from where she stood: unless somebody was under the bed or hiding in the closets or bath, nobody was waiting to jump her. Better yet, the place felt empty. Engaging the dead bolt and chain that secured the door, Riley heaved a sigh of relief. Only then did she realize how on edge she’d been.

  The skin-crawling sensation of being observed that had been with her from practically the moment she’d left Margaret’s house was finally gone.

  The living room curtains were open, but since she was on the fourteenth floor and the building opposite was only twelve stories tall she never bothered closing them, as she liked being greeted by daylight when she stepped out of her bedroom in the mornings. The two tall windows were the best thing about the apartment: they fronted the street and let in lots of light. At the moment, she could see the city skyline glowing as it rose like uneven teeth to touch the midnight blue sky.

  Her furnishings were minimal—a glass-topped dining table and four chairs, a black pleather couch and chair in front of a small flat-screen TV, a pair of glass-topped end tables, and, serving as both coffee table and storage, a carved wooden trunk. In the bedroom, she had a queen bed with a black and white floral spread, nightstands and chest, plus the desk that she used as her home office. The effect was clean and modern and she liked it. The government scavengers who’d seized everything belonging to the Cowans had come to her apartment, too, on the theory that her divorce was recent and anything she’d acquired during her marriage, like furniture, had been purchased with ill-gotten gains. Just as they’d done at Oakwood, they’d cleaned her place out despite the fact that, except for a few pieces, she’d bought everything new after she’d separated from Jeff. All they’d left her were her clothes and personal belongings. For good measure, they’d seized her bank accounts, too. Nobody had cared that the money she possessed had been hers; she’d taken nothing from the Cowans, nothing from Jeff. Their unfair treatment of her still rankled. Along with their ongoing suspicion of her and Margaret and Jeff, it was one of the reasons she despised them.

  When she’d left Jeff she’d been fed up, furious. You can take your money and shove it up your ass, is what she’d snarled at him when he’d reminded her of everything she would be walking away from if she divorced him. At that point, all she’d wanted was her life back.

  Since then, naturally, her life had gone to hell on a slide.

  And she was just as involved with the Cowans as ever.

  Grimacing, Riley kicked off her shoes, dropped her purse on the dining table, and padded barefoot across the smooth cushion of the gray wall-to-wall carpet, heading for her bedroom, unzipping her slim black sheath as she went. She felt sticky from the heat, and as she stripped down to her underwear she welcomed the feel of the air-conditioning on her bare skin.

  I wish I could turn back time.

  That was the useless thought that curled through her mind as she dropped her pearls (fake; the government had taken the real ones, along with the rest of her jewelry except, ironically, the wedding ring she no longer wore or wanted) on the nightstand, put her dress away, then walked into the small connecting bathroom to turn on the taps in the tub, opting for a bath over a shower because she didn’t want to get her hair wet. With one bathroom shared between the three of them at Margaret’s house, waiting to use it was a given, especially since one of their number was a teen who could spend hours locked in there doing God knows what.

  As the water ran she returned to the bedroom, pulled her small suitcase out of the bottom of the closet, and quickly packed enough clothes to last for a few more days. After that, she would reevaluate.

  Here, it was possible to pretend that the worst hadn’t happened. Her apartment didn’t reek of Jeff: he’d visited, but he’d never lived in it. Never even spent the night.

  If I’d gotten to Oakwood faster . . .

  Impatient with herself, Riley pushed away the useless thought and focused on the task at hand. Conservative suits for the car dealership, sexy dresses for the club. Her work wardrobe reminded her of a mullet: business during the day, party at night.

  Packing done, she stripped down to her skin and walked into the bathroom, which was tiny and windowless and strictly utilitarian. The bath was ready: she turned off the taps, twisted her hair up, secured the coil by the simple expedient of shoving the business end of a rattail comb through it, and stepped into the tub.

  The water was blissfully hot. As she sank down into it, Riley felt her tense muscles begin to relax for the first time since she had walked into Oakwood that terrible night. She’d needed this, she realized: a little bit of time to herself.

  As Mrs. Jeff Cowan, she’d become used to the ultimate in lavish living: gorgeous clothes; six-hundred-dollar-a-pair shoes; thousand-thread-count linens; the finest restaurants; the best clubs; private jets; high-end cars. Most of the materialism hadn’t made much of an impression on her. But the one thing she’d come to love was luxurious toiletries.

  Now as she lathered her skin with silky white bubbles, the sight and smell of the pink, flower-shaped, rose-scented bar that was one of her few remaining extravagances provided her with a familiar glimmer of pleasure. At least, until all the associations that came with the divine-smelling suds slammed her. Before she’d married Jeff, soap had been soap. Nothing special. Got the job done. The cheapest bar was usually the one she went for.

  Their marriage hadn’t worked. They hadn’t been soul mates, or even compatible life partners. But he had changed her life. He had introduced her to expensive soap.

  Ah, Jeff.

  She closed her eyes, remembering. The first thing she’d noticed about him had been his blond hair gleaming under the light as he’d sat down at the very end of the bar where she was mixing drinks. The second thing, about an hour later, was his smile, rueful and charming, when after running a tab for four old fashioneds he’d discovered that he’d forgotten his wallet. Per bar policy, she’d been on the hook for his tab. She hadn’t been happy, and she’d been even less happy when he’d pulled out car keys and informed her that he was going to drive to his apartment, retrieve his wallet, and be right back. Judging him unfit to drive, she called him a cab, and paid for that, too. She hadn’t ever expected to see him again. But he’d shown up the next night, reimbursed her, and asked her out to dinner. He’d been sweet and kind and sober and straight, and over the following six months they’d fallen in love.

  She’d married him because he’d needed taking care of, and, in the aftermath of losing the little sister she’d raised practically from birth, she’d needed someone who needed taking care of. She saw that now. But then—she’d been in love with him.

  At least, with Lorna, she’d been there at the end. Not so with Jeff. He’d died alone.

  He must have been so scared.

  Don’t think about it.

  Her throat tightened. Tears stung her eyes. She gripped the soap so hard her nails dug into it.

  Crying won’t change a thing. I am not going to cry.

  Riley let her head rest back against the smooth porcelain and squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut as she fought the tears she refused to shed.

  A prickle along the back of her neck was accompanied by the eerie sense that she was not alone. Opening her eyes, blinking to force back welling tears, Riley caught the shadow of movement with her peripheral vision, turned her head so fast it hurt her neck, and saw a man step inside her bathroom and stop. Just like that, there he was, gray sneakers planted on the white tile just inside the door.

  Every cell in her body froze.

  Average height. Muscular build. Dark jeans. Navy polo shirt. A black ski mask pulled down over his face.

  “Hello, Riley,” he said, and as her heart jumped into her throat and her eyes popped wide he leaped for her.

  Terror exploded inside her. Jolted into instant action, she screamed, so loud it echoed off the tiles, and hurled the round little cake of soap at him. It hit the middle of his chest and bounced harmlessly off even as she splashed
and scrabbled at the slick porcelain and grabbed the built-in soap dish for leverage, somehow managing to catapult to her feet.

  “Shut the fuck up.” He snatched at her and got the billowing shower curtain instead as she flung it at him and shied violently away.

  Go, go, go.

  Shrieking like a train whistle, knowing that she had almost no chance of escape, Riley sprang from the tub. Her only hope was to somehow dodge past him, make it through the door, and run—but the bathroom was small and the sink was blocking her on the left and he was right there. Her wet feet slid precariously as they smacked down on smooth tile. Her heart jackhammered. Her pulse raced. She had no weapon, no way to escape.

  He’s between me and the door—

  “I said shut up.” He caught her as she tried to barrel past him, his hands—oh, God, he’s wearing gloves, white surgical gloves; this is bad—big and rough on her waist as he picked her up and threw her bodily back against the tiled wall. She hit with so much force that the breath was knocked out of her along with the scream and she banged her head, hard. The force of it snapped her teeth together, rattled her brain.

  “Oh.” She fell heavily, landing in the slippery tub, cracking her hip and elbow and shoulder painfully on the way down, splashing into the water, causing it to spill out of the bath in a great wave.

  Stunned, she didn’t even have time to suck in air for another scream before his hands closed on her shoulders and he forced her down beneath the surface of the water. Desperately she held her breath as she went under, her mouth somehow filling with the taste of the hot, soapy water even as she clamped her lips together.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  She fought like a wild thing, thrashing and kicking as water closed over her head, shooting up her nose, filling her ears, stinging her eyes. Instinctively she snapped them shut, then a moment later forced them to open a slit so that she could see, because being able to see what was happening seemed somehow paramount to survival. He was leaning over the tub, over her, his fingers digging into her shoulders, a blurry dark shape distorted by the waves of churning water sloshing around her. With every ounce of her strength she tried to tear herself free of his grip, to at least get her head above water for a second so that she could breathe, but he held her down against the bottom of the tub like he meant to keep her there forever.