A Rip Through Time(113)

Is he trying to figure out where it fell from? Please don’t play Mr. Handyman. Be the kind of renter I was, who’d set the nail aside and text the landlord to let them know I found it.

Is a man more likely to try fixing it himself? My dad would, despite the fact that Mom’s the one who knows where they keep the hammer and how to use it.

The other possibility? That Findlay realizes it’s an alert. Or that he had some junior-detective alert of his own rigged up, to let him know if someone entered his apartment.

I take out my knife. I don’t open it. I stand there, holding it, and cursing myself for not having a different weapon. Knives are messy. It’ll work if I need to just scare him as I flee, but if I’m forced to do more…?

I won’t be forced to do more. I’ve got this. I just need to get past him.

Damn it, why couldn’t he have come home when I was in the kitchen or living room? Someplace where I’d have a way to get past him. There’s a window here, but I’m not foolish enough to think I can climb up there and squeeze through before he walks in.

One way out. The door. Which is on the other side of Findlay.

I hold my breath to listen. Silence. Then the creak of a floorboard.

Okay, he’s not trying to fix the door. He knows someone’s here.

I finger my knife. Should I open it up? Or fight my way past without bringing that into play?

What if he has a knife of his own? Then I’ll definitely want mine.

I’m about to flip it open when I catch sight of something in the corner. It’s nearly hidden in the darkness, but it looks like …

Is that a billy club? Oh hell yes. Findlay keeps a police baton in his bedroom, the way I keep a baseball bat.

I strain to listen. The apartment seems silent. Then I catch the softest scuff of a boot. He’s halfway down the hall. I take one careful step, lean out, and stretch until my fingers touch the club. They graze wood and start to close, but my aim is off, and the movement starts the baton toppling. I lunge, and it clatters against the wall as I grab it.

I snatch the billy club and jerk back into my spot, clutching it to my chest. There’s no cry from the hall. No pound of footsteps. He heard me. He must have, and yet he’s continuing his silent approach.

The hunter stalking his prey.

I slide the knife into my pocket and lift the club, gripping the handle. It’s wood, smooth with age. There’s a ridged section for a handgrip and a worn leather strap to go around my wrist. The weight is different from a modern baton, and I test it out, preparing.

The next noise is so soft I’m not sure I don’t imagine it. The slide of a foot. Right at the doorway. Turning in to the room.

I press into the wardrobe, and when I hold my breath, I swear I can hear his. Then another soft-footed step. Another.

He knows I’m in here. And he knows there are only two places for me to hide.





FORTY


I tug a coin from my pocket as quietly as I can. Then I flip it down on the far side of the bed. I want Findlay to dive toward the movement. To react and move without thinking.

He doesn’t.

The slide of another step. I wedge as far as I can get into the corner between the wall and the wardrobe. Then I remember my skirts. I’m not wearing a body-hugging cocktail dress. I’ve got long skirts over layers of underskirts, and they do not “wedge” into that corner with me. I consider pulling them in, but that will cause both noise and movement.

Forget the skirts. Hold my breath. Lift the baton. Be ready.

The edge of a figure appears. Findlay’s dark-clad, dark-haired figure. He’s moving toward the bed. Then I catch the faintest shift my way, his face turning, checking behind the wardrobe before he focuses on the bed.

I lunge and swing. At the last second, he spins. The club hits him in the shoulder instead of the skull. It should still hit hard enough for him to reel. I feel the solid thwack of it. Yet he barely staggers, and before I can pull back for another blow, he’s grabbing at me.

I swing the club. I kick. I even let go of the damn baton with one hand and punch. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve fought the imposter before, and he only stood a chance when he had a rope tightening around my neck.

The guy I faced before was a half-assed fighter, all awkward blows and jabs, like someone who’s never fended off more than a schoolyard bully. This is different. This guy grabs the club and ducks my blows and ignores my kicks, and with the damned dress on, I can’t do more, and before I know it, I’m up against the wall with a hand over my mouth.

He has one hand on my club and the other over my mouth, but he’s not otherwise restraining me. I release the club and pull back for a punch … and see him clearly, out of the shadows.

Light brown skin. Dark eyes. And a face at least three inches above where I expect Findlay’s to be.

“Duncan?” I say, my voice muffled by his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice—or can’t hear—the familiarity of the address. He just motions for me to be quiet, brows lifting as if waiting for me to agree.

I nod, and he lowers his hand and steps back.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“Following—” He shakes off the rest and glances toward the hall. “Constable Findlay will be back soon. That’s what I came inside to warn. The public houses have closed, and he will be on his way back.”