She placed her hand on the cool metal, wondering what secrets her father had hidden inside. Knowing him, they couldn't be good. Hopefully, there was nothing more than a few pieces of her mother's jewelry.
Her mother.
Taking a chance, she turned the dial again. This time she used her mother's birth date. Anticipation filled her as she gripped the handle and tugged. Disappointment filled her when it still didn't budge. She'd been so sure that she'd be right.
By all accounts, her father had loved her mother to distraction. But Jennifer James had died when Cyndi was just four. She barely remembered her mother. She was more of a shadowy memory—a beautiful, smiling woman who always smelled of rose perfume. Her father had never looked at another woman after her mother's death. He'd had a mistress instead—money. And she was a demanding bitch.
Her mother's death.
Surely he wouldn't have. But Cyndi was even more sure than before. This time when she turned the dial, she put in the date of her mother's death. The tumblers of the lock clicked and when she turned the handle, it gave easily.
Cyndi held her breath, the creaks and groans of the house receding into the background as she pulled the small, metal door open and peered inside. There were quite a few velvet cases, some papers, and some leather-bound journals. It was obviously going to take some time for her to go through all of this.
Unable to resist, she reached in, her fingers wrapping around a blue velvet case. She pulled it out and rubbed her hand over the soft fabric. Whatever was inside had belonged to her mother. With shaking hands, she pried the lid open. A necklace unlike anything she'd ever seen rested inside on a bed of pale blue velvet. A large sapphire drop was the pendant and the necklace itself was a series of smaller sapphires interspersed with gleaming white diamonds. Cyndi was no expert, but this necklace was worth an awful lot of money.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she reached out and placed her fingers against the large gemstone. This stone had touched her mother's skin. Had her mother worn it to some fancy party? Probably. Her father would have wanted to show off the fact he could give such trinkets to his wife.
A tear trickled down her cheek and she turned her head into her shoulder, swiping it away. Her mother had been dead for decades, but somehow it felt fresh. Cyndi had never really known a mother's caring, not until she'd run from Jamesville fourteen years ago and ended up in the loving arms of her mother's sister, Verna. It was from Verna that she'd learned about her mother. Her father had never talked about her, never mentioned her name.
Closing the case, she placed it carefully back in the safe. Now that she knew she could open it, she'd deal with everything in there tomorrow. She'd had enough for tonight. Still, she was proud of herself. It was the first step in facing the demons of her past.
She slammed the safe door shut and spun the dial. When she tugged on the handle, it no longer opened. Satisfied, she picked up the painting and hung it back on the wall. “You're definitely going,” she told the canvas.
A branch outside hit the window again, startling her. She'd really had enough of this room for one night. It was making her jumpy. Ignoring the noises, she strode back to the desk.
She'd have to catalogue each piece in the house that she didn't want, which would be most of it, and call a reputable dealer. There would be antique furniture, artwork, books, dishes, and heaven only knows what else. She knew there was a large attic upstairs filled with stuff that would need to be gone through. But if she ever wanted this house to feel like hers, it had to be done.
Cyndi reached out to turn off the desk lamp. What she needed right now was a hot cup of chamomile tea and a piece of the good, dark chocolate she'd brought with her. She'd make a small tray and take it upstairs with her and indulge in a hot, bubble bath as well. Maybe she'd even start the new Lauren Dane book she'd purchased especially for the trip.
The crash came the second her hand touched the lamp. Cyndi screamed, whirling around to face the window. The second crash was even louder. Shards of glass blew inward with great force.
Cyndi spun away, covering her face and dropping to the floor. Several more crashes followed. The silence that followed was even more frightening.
Her heart pounding like a runaway train, Cyndi stared toward the windows. All four of them were shattered. The drapes billowed inward as the wind blew through the gaping holes. Glass tinkled as it continued to fall away from the windowpanes.
Shocked, all she could do was stare at the destruction. Then common sense kicked in. Someone was out there. Someone had broken out all her windows. At this point, she wasn't sure how they'd done it, but they'd obviously known she was in here. Alone.
Reaching her hand over her head, she groped for the phone that sat on the corner of the desk and dragged it onto her lap. She lifted the receiver. The line was dead.
Her cell phone was in her purse in the kitchen.
She'd have to make a run for it. Taking a deep breath, she jumped up, flicked off the lamp, and raced to the door. Her hand brushed over the main light switch, plummeting the room into darkness. She heard a popping sound as the door slammed behind her.
Not pausing, she raced down the hallway, skidding on the floor as she entered the kitchen. Keeping her head low, she grabbed her purse off the counter and kept going, heading for the pantry. Her hand slipped on the doorknob, but then it was open and she threw herself inside, crouching on the floor.
There were no windows in this room, so she flicked on the light. She was appalled to see blood on her hand, but ignored it as she upended her purse onto the floor. Grabbing her phone, she hesitated. She knew she should dial 911. They would send someone from the sheriff's office. But she didn't have any friends in this town. Given the fact Patrick O'Rourke was now the sheriff, would an officer be dispatched right away or would they make her wait? She hated that she had doubts.
Shamus popped into her head. He'd help her. Her fingers flew to the card he'd tucked into her pocket earlier today. She hadn't remembered to take it out. She dropped it twice before finally leaving it on the floor. It took her several tries before she could dial the number without making a mistake.
It rang once, twice, and was answered on the third ring. “Hello.” The sound of his voice sank into her bones. He would help her. She could hear the television in the background. “Hello?” he said again. She hadn't realized that she hadn't spoken. “Who is this?"
She sank down onto the floor and pulled her legs tight to her chest. “Shamus.” Her voice was thin and shaky, but still he knew her at once.
"Cyndi."
"Someone just shot out my windows. I was in the study. At least I think they shot them. I'm not sure. But they're out there. They cut the phone line, and I had to make a run for my cell phone.” She knew she was babbling but couldn't make herself stop. Someone had shot at her.
"I'm on my way."
The thought of him coming here when there might be a maniac with a gun terrified her. “No! He might still be out there. Can you call the sheriff's department?"
"Why didn't you call them?” She could tell he was moving in the background as the television faded.
"I know I should have called 911.” Her voice sounded as small as she felt. “I wasn't sure they'd come. At least not right away."
Shamus swore. “Hang on, I'm calling from the other phone.” As she went quiet, she realized that she'd called Shamus's cell phone and that he had a landline as well. “Yeah, it's me. There's someone shooting at the James place. I'm on my way.” It took her a second to grasp the fact that Shamus wasn't talking to her. Then he was back. “I'm on my way out the door right now. Stay on the line with me."