Not wanting to waste time rinsing off, she turned off the shower and let the soap creep down her skin. It felt like an unwanted touch, spiraling chills over her body. Squinting back the sting from her eyes, she pulled at the sliding door and fortified herself for a fight. Her cop instincts kicked in. But the steam in her small bathroom had parted like the Red Sea. To her shock, the bathroom door gaped open. Oh, God! She wasn't alone.
CHAPTER 8
An eerie silence mocked her. Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. Her house was stone-still now. Even its usual creaks and groans were mute. Raven strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. Then the familiar sound of a simmering pot of spaghetti sauce on her stove reminded her. What time was it? For her, time ground to a halt. She found herself praying that Christian would forgo his usual promptness to be early for a change.
Alert to anything, she caught a motion at the corner of her eye. Her jaw dropped at the sight, sucking steamy air down her windpipe. A bloodless pallor—her own reflection stared back through streaks on the mirror. The bastard had left her a message.
You aren't safe—ANYWHERE!
Mickey learned the bard way.
Printed on the fogged glass, his warning ridiculed her. Mickey's killer was in her home, unimpressed with her authority. Naked as she was, she conceded his point. But she couldn't allow herself to be distracted now.
Easing out of the tub, Raven kept her eyes focused on the open door. Every muscle tensed. She waited for a faceless attacker to make his move—prepared for the intruder to rush her while she'd be most vulnerable. Step by step, she inched toward the door. Fear massed into staunch self-preservation. Holding her breath, she listened. But in the pit of her stomach, reality gripped her.
A killer stalked her, violating her home. She wasn't safe. Not anymore.
Raven reached for the robe hanging on the bathroom door. Her hair was soaked, strands stiffened from lingering soapsuds. Water dripped off her body, making the floor slippery. Throwing the garment around her shoulders, she didn't take the time to dry off. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She felt the chill in the air seep through the pores of her dank skin. If she was attacked here, in her condition, only her training and mental toughness would keep her alive. Her mind focused on the location of her weapon, willing it to her hand. She prayed her intruder wasn't armed, or an even worse scenario, that the coward might use her own weapon against her.
With her back to the wall, she crept through the house, dodging floorboards that would give her away. Her eyes darted down the length of the hall as she made her way to the bedroom—and her Glock nine-millimeter.
A faint sound, somewhere deeper within the house, forced her to stop where she stood. Sweeping past her, a draft of cold air made her teeth chatter, her body betraying the pretense of courage. Why was it so cold?
Peering over her shoulder, she used the mirror on her bedroom dresser to improve her chances. No one was behind the door. And with her closet open, just as she'd left it, it would be impossible for someone to hide in her small room.
Quickly, she stepped toward her nightstand and inched open the top drawer, not taking her eye off the doorway. Letting out a sigh of relief, she found her Glock still in its holster. Releasing the safety, she gripped the weapon, its heft steeling her for a confrontation. Now the odds were even.
Time to hunt in earnest.
"Junior? You better be brushing your teeth. I'm coming up for an inspection."
Yolanda Rodriguez raised her voice, calling upstairs. Even with her precocious child out of sight, she knew little Tony would still be playing his Game Boy. The ten-year-old had their nightly ritual down to a science, her warning part of the routine. By the time she got midstair, he'd shoot to the bathroom and conjure up a mouth full of froth for her benefit, practically rubbing the enamel off his teeth. It didn't matter that his little feet sounded like a herd of wild animals dashing down the upstairs hallway. A glint of satisfaction would shine in his dark eyes, like he'd fooled her once again. In those moments, he looked so much like his father.
That glint reminded her. Little Tony had been conceived on a night when she saw that exact look in her husband's eyes. Shaking her head, she continued her chore as a smile fought to break free.
Wiping down the kitchen counter, she made the room sparkle, a far cry from the condition it had been earlier. Make-your-own-chalupa night was a Thursday dinner ritual in the Rodriguez household. And as far as she knew, the first peanut butter and pineapple chalupa had been invented tonight, under her very roof.
"Celia? Time for bed, mi hija."
Even though her daughter slouched in one of the living room chairs watching a muted television, she still had to raise her voice to get above the music blasting on the young girl's headset. She supposed that flipping through TV channels fast enough produced some semblance of an MTV video. Not having cable, it was Celia's only option. According to her daughter, she was the only one in school not allowed to watch MTV—a social disaster.
"But Mom, Dad is still not home. Can't we wait up for him?"
She couldn't see Celia's face, but she pictured her brow furrowed with eyes rolled toward the ceiling, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Her twelve-year-old daughter was an admitted drama queen who still had a crush on her father. Yolanda understood completely. Even after two years of courtship and fourteen years of marriage, she still carried a torch for her husband.
"Dad's still not home? So what else is new," Yolanda muttered under her breath as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Raising her voice once again, she answered, "No, honey. You've got school tomorrow. Your father will understand."
Walking over to her daughter, she gently raised the headphones from her ears, then cradled Celia's warm cheeks in her hands. Lowering her lips to the young girl's forehead, she kissed her, saying, "Time for bed, cosa fina."
Leaning back, Celia turned and smiled. Between them, the nickname of "fine thing" in Spanish was just as good as saying—
"Love you, too, Mom."
Turning off the TV by remote, Celia walked toward the stairs. With a devilish grin, she turned and pointed upstairs, silently gesturing for Yolanda's cooperation. It took her only a moment to understand what her daughter wanted.
"You better be done with your teeth, Junior," she called her final warning upstairs.
With a silent chuckle, Celia raised the okay sign and stepped loudly up the flight of steps. A second later, a rumble down the hallway and running water in the sink told them both that Tony Junior was up to his old tricks. But tonight, she and her daughter had won the game. The twinkle would be in Celia's beautiful eyes.
Kids would be kids, she mused with a shake of her head. But then, what was her excuse?
Before she followed her daughter upstairs, she did her routine walk through the house. She'd lock the doors and turn off the lights with one last check of the thermostat. The laughter of her children kept a smile on her face. As usual, she left the front porch light on and a lamp near the front door so Tony would know he was loved—and missed.
But as she dimmed the light in the living room, a motion caught her attention. She'd seen something through the drapery sheers. Yolanda pulled aside the front window curtain and squinted into the night, blocking the dim lighting behind her with cupped hands to shield her eyes.
Again, to the left, near the street. A shadow darted for cover in the hedges of their property. Their property! She gasped. Backlit by a streetlamp, the movement had been abrupt.