Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(17)

Even now, she could hear the rattling of the front door knob, the thud of footsteps on her porch when no one had reason to visit this late at night. Jared’s footsteps. Jared, the walking nightmare she’d married. Her husband who’d abused her for four years. Her ex-husband who stalked her still.

“Ma’am, where are you in your home?” the male emergency dispatcher asked with a studied calm that struck a familiar chord inside her.

Her heart hitched. It couldn’t be… Pain must be making her imagination play tricks with her mind. The man on the phone couldn’t possibly be him, the strongest man she’d ever known. The man she should have married.

She had to think clearly, focus. “I’m in my laundry room, under the utility sink. There’s a curtain around it.”

Thank God she’d woken up, unable to go back to sleep. Restless, she’d gone in search of a midnight snack and caught a glimpse of her ex creeping through her garden, daffodils and bluebells crushed under his boots. She’d snatched up her cell phone and ducked into the laundry room to hide while she called for help. She clutched her knees tightly to her chest, the scent of fabric softener and bleach lingering in the air. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m here. Is the intruder still outside or has he entered the house?” the dispatcher asked, his voice gravelly and hoarse.

She listened closer to the tones and realized it wasn’t Gavin, the man she should have married, on the line after all. Gavin’s voice had been deep but smooth, sweeping away her inhibitions and virginity—before she’d ruined her life by issuing ultimatums that had driven a wedge between them. A decade ago, Gavin had left their small Kentucky town and enlisted in the Air Force, his burly presence and reassuring strength gone from her world.

“He’s still outside. He’s trying to jimmy the locks. There’s no glass to break.” When she’d moved across town after her divorce two years ago, she’d bought a solid wood door, triple locks, and grilles for the windows, turning her cottage into a fortress. She’d quit her job as an LPN and supported herself by freelance writing medical articles. “You have to send help quickly. He’s tried to kill me before.”

He’d almost succeeded six months ago, even though the cops hadn’t been able to prove he was the culprit. Her side ached at the memory. She’d kept herself alive thanks to her training as a nurse, pushing her fingers into her own wound. The cops had labeled it another unsolved break-in, since she’d never actually seen his face. He always wore a mask. His anonymous texts and gifts were always untraceable but had hidden meanings she couldn’t mistake.

“Ma’am, I’ve already dispatched a patrol car to your address. I will stay on the line until they arrive. Meanwhile, we’re going to get as much information as we can to help the police know what to expect.”

What to expect? Anything. Everything. Evil.

Jared had threatened her with a gun, his fists, knives, even a winter scarf pulled tightly around her neck. Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. The most she’d ever been able to achieve was a restraining order. And that he deftly ignored, terrorizing her without getting caught. At one point, out of desperation, she’d tried relocating to a different state, and he’d found her within two weeks. If she couldn’t hide, at least she could be safe in her home.

“Ma’am? Talk to me. Tell me what you hear.”

“Yes, I’m…just having…trouble…breathing…” Her toes curled against the tile floor, a gust from the air conditioner rustling the sink curtain against her bare legs.

“When you speak, that will help you breathe. Keep talking to me.”

“Okay…Okay…Okay…” She sucked in a shuddering breath. Would she ever be able to smell detergent again without having a panic attack? A thud reverberated and sent a jolt of fear through her. “He’s ramming his shoulder against the front door.”

“That’s important to know, ma’am. Keep talking. Details. It would help to have your names.”

“His name is Jared Lewis. I’m Stacy Currie. I took back my maiden name after the divorce.”

Silence. No answer from the other end of the line. Nothing at all from the dispatcher for three heartbeats, her pulse as loud as the pounding on the door. But no shouting. Jared never risked his voice being caught on tape. He would be masked and gloved too. The more it happened, the more reclusive she became and the more the town thought she was going off the deep end, paranoid from that first “unsolved break-in.”

“Sir? Hello?” Had the call dropped? Bile burned her throat. She looked at her cell phone glowing with only twenty-four percent battery life. “Please don’t leave.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m here, and you’re going to be fine. Help is on the way.”

The back porch door crashed open. The crack of splintering wood, the slam against the wall sent icy terror spiking through her. She bit her lip until it bled, holding back a scream. Jared wasn’t just toying with her tonight. He was inside her home. The alarm squealed into the night. She’d bought this cottage with safety in mind, but even her best efforts hadn’t been enough to keep Jared out.

“Stacy…” The dispatcher stayed calm, but she could have sworn even he had a hint of urgency bleeding through his raspy tones. “Talk to me. Breathe.”