ChapterFour
It was dark when Evie pulled up in front of her parents’ house. It loomed behind the flower garden that teemed with new life, windows black and ominous. Dread pooled in her belly. She couldn’t remember a time when her mother hadn’t left at least the porch light on at night.
She cut the engine, plunging the yard into darkness. Picking her way up the bricked path in the faint, sickly green glow from the street lamp on the cross street, she peered in the windows that ran the length of the door on either side. Nothing.
She jiggled the handle, but the door was locked. Checking the street for cars or nosy neighbors, she moved further down the porch into the shadows of the shrubs that lined the railing and stopped in front of the living room window.
Carefully removing the screen and leaning it up against the side of the house, she braced herself and elbowed out the window, hissing as a piece of glass scraped along her forearm when she reached in to unlock it.
Her first thought as she climbed in, stepping over the broken shards, was that it was freezing. Far too cold for early April. Rubbing warmth into her arms, she crossed to the thermostat on the opposite wall. Forty degrees. When she cut off the air conditioning, the house fell into eerie silence.
“Mom?” Her voice was thin, tinny to her own ears as she called out into the emptiness.
The living room was pristine. No drawers left hanging open or papers thrown around. Throw pillows were tucked neatly into the corners of the couch, a blanket draped across the ottoman. She could make out the shape of photos that hung on the wall in the dark. Resisting the urge to cross the room and inspect them, she followed the hallway back toward the kitchen.
The formal dining room she remembered using for holidays and special occasions looked untouched, except for one chair that sat askew, as if someone had pulled it out to sit down and forgot to tuck it in when they got up. Her mother always insisted they tuck their chairs in.
“Hello?”
She turned toward the kitchen and noticed a faint golden glow that spilled out into the hallway. Probably from the light over the stove or kitchen sink. Relief washed through her, and she quickened her steps, rounding the corner into the kitchen.
Relief melted into terror when she saw her mother collapsed on the floor behind the kitchen table. Oh God, please. Please still be alive. She didn’t notice the blood until she dropped to her knees, fingers searching her mother’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. A sob escaped her lips and she tried again, fingers slipping as she desperately willed her mother’s heart to beat.
She drew her hand back, staring numbly down at the thick, sticky blood that coated her fingers. Another shape on the floor drew her gaze up, and her father’s body came into focus.
“No,” she sobbed, throat tight. His eyes were open, staring, and blood dripped from a single gunshot wound to his temple.
She looked from her father to her mother in horror, hands trembling. Desperate for some air, she bolted to her feet and out the back door onto the deck. Gulping in the fresh night air, she leaned over the railing and threw up into her mother’s hydrangeas.
When headlights swept over the side yard and she heard a car pulling into the driveway, her body went rigid. Shit. She’d left the .22 she always carried in her purse in the car. She darted back into the kitchen, carefully stepping around her mother’s body, and grabbed a cast iron skillet off the stove, wielding it like a bat as she peeked around the doorway and down the hall.
She moved quickly into the living room as keys jingled in the lock. Nessa? Footsteps receded, pausing as if whoever it was had noticed the window she’d broken. They moved back to the door. Too heavy to be her sister. Who else would have a key?
Holding her breath, she waited for the door to swing slowly in. It was a man, tall and broad. She could just make out the outline of his body and the gun he held low at his side.
He stepped in off the porch, shutting the door behind him, and she pressed her back against the wall. She was trapped. Should have left out the kitchen door when she had a chance. If she rushed him, she might be able to take him by surprise before he had a chance to fire.
Gripping the cast iron tighter, she poised to leap, but he threw her off guard when he flicked on the lights, and she blinked against the unexpected brightness. When his hand gripped her wrist, she yelped, but he’d already tugged the pan free, setting it down next to the TV.
“Evie?”
His voice was deeper than she remembered, but no less familiar. She risked a look at his face. He didn’t look angry; he looked…confused.
“Declan.” It came out a whisper.
“What in the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded as he slid the gun into the holster at his back.
“I…” She shuddered, hugging herself only to remember that her hands were slick with blood. Pulling them away, she looked down at them, and Declan’s gaze followed her own.
He stepped back, and she could feel his eyes travel down the rest of her body.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
Evie shook her head. Christ, why couldn’t she make her brain work?
“Evie?” He waited until she met his gaze. “Where are your parents?”
“They’re…” Her eyes drifted to the hallway.
