“It was around 7:45, I think. A little before 8:00.”
“Was anyone else around?”
I shook my head, instantly regretting the action as my vision swam.
“Easy, Warrior,” Cope said, his thumb tracing delicate designs on the back of my hand.
I kept my eyes closed for a minute, then opened them. “I didn’t see any other people or cars. I let myself in and locked the door behind me. No one should’ve been able to get in.”
Trace sent me a look of sympathy. “The intruder jimmied the lock. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I bit the corner of my lip but gave him a small nod, one that wouldn’t send my brain reeling.
“Walk me through what happened once you were inside.”
I swallowed, trying to clear the lump of fear in my throat. “I turned on the radio and started working on the cake. I always lose myself in the process. Hours pass in what feels like seconds. I didn’t hear him come in. Not until his shoe squeaked on the floor.”
I gripped Cope’s hand tighter, my fingers digging into his flesh and holding on as if he were my lifeline. And maybe he was. “It took me a second because what I was seeing didn’t make sense—a man in all black, wearing one of those ski mask things.”
“A balaclava?” Trace clarified.
“Yes. Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me and told me to empty the register.”
“Was there anything familiar about his voice?” Trace asked.
I shivered, and Cope pulled my blanket up with his free hand. My mouth felt dry as I remembered the creepy tone. “It was like his voice was computer generated or something. It sounded like that horror movie. You know, theScreamones?”
Trace and Cope shared a look, but it was Trace who spoke. “Those sorts of distorters are pretty easy to come by. You can get them for twenty bucks on the internet. He probably had it inside the mask.”
So, it could’ve been anyone. Somehow, that was more terrifying. I swallowed the knowledge and forced myself to keep going. “I emptied what we had in the register, but he wasn’t happy because there wasn’t a lot. He said he’d find it himself and hit me with the butt of the gun. At least, I think that’s what it was.”
The ugly words he’d said about Cope and me flashed in my mind, but I couldn’t give voice to them, not when I knew Cope would blame himself for me becoming a target. And what did it matter anyway? Anyone could’ve seen those tabloid articles or heard gossip around town.
“You need to bring Rick Anderson in for questioning,” Cope ordered.
“I’ll pay him a visit right after I leave here,” Trace assured me.
I straightened on the gurney. “Do you honestly think my landlord would do this? He’s a jerk for sure, but this is extreme.”
Cope gripped my hand harder. “He’s mixed up in some shady dealings. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to scare you out of your lease.”
It didn’t surprise me that Rick was shady. I already had a feeling he was behind my visit from the health department, but violence was something else entirely.
Trace studied me, his gaze somehow managing to be both gentle and probing. “Is there someone else you think it could be?”
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as if I’d just eaten a spoonful of peanut butter. I wasn’t ready. Not for any of the Colsons to see me differently, but especially not Cope. His hold on my hand stiffened as though his muscles had become full of lead. “Who do you think did this?”
My eyes burned, but I forced myself to keep staring down at my lap, not at Trace. And definitely not at Cope. I had to get it out. The quicker, the better. “Luca’s dad and my ex-husband. He was a professional football player. Roman Boyer.”
“Wide receiver out of Baltimore, right?” Trace asked.
I nodded, not looking away from the cheap hospital blanket and its fraying threads from being washed so many times. “He got injured several years ago. Torn ACL. The surgery had complications, and they prescribed him oxycodone.” Cope’s hand spasmed around mine. “He got hooked.”
It was a truth they already knew was coming, but I went on anyway, needing to get it out of me, purge it like the violent poison it was. “I didn’t realize until it was too late. He got booted from the team, which only made him get into the harder stuff. He emptied our bank accounts, would disappear for weeks on end. And when he did manage to come home, he was erratic at best. I didn’t have any choice.”
“You divorced him,” Trace supplied.
“Yes,” I croaked. “I filed the day our house was foreclosed on. I moved Luca and me into the best apartment I could afford on my waitress’s salary. But it wasn’t in the best neighborhood.”
