Paranoid(20)

“Rachel? Are you here?”

Obviously not. And yet he felt as if he weren’t alone. He stopped and listened. Nothing. Other than the soft hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of a breeze slipping through a partially open window near the table.

Huh.

The kids were in school and even the dog was missing, along with the car. He started to leave, but paused, glancing at the familiar objects. Her favorite cracked coffee cup now in the sink, the faded message “World’s Best Mom” barely visible. The kids’ artwork from years before, still on display on a bulletin board, the cracked linoleum flooring that she hated and he’d promised to replace in the small kitchen, the dog bed near the door.

He felt a stupid wave of nostalgia. He’d wanted to tell her about Violet himself, and when he’d gotten no response to his calls and text messages he’d stopped by on his way to the station.

Hopefully, she’d return his call when she got home.

But, by then, it would probably be too late.

Reporters had already started gathering at the Sperry house by the time he’d left. The image of Violet’s broken body still hung with him, and his quick interview with Vi’s husband, Leonard, brought him to the same conclusion Kayleigh had come to: innocent. Or up for a damned Academy Award. Leonard Sperry had been a broken man, unable to stop the unending flow of tears and barely able to communicate as he’d sat in the police car. He’d been murmuring, “No, no, no . . . oh, Vi . . . no, no,” and working his hands, alternately glancing out the window and then at the floor of the cruiser.

His story hadn’t altered. He’d been in Bend with friends. Come home early. Found her on the floor, the dogs locked upstairs in the bedroom. He couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm her or him and, no, he knew she wouldn’t have done something like take her own life by throwing herself over the railing. Leonard seemed to think she must’ve stumbled down the stairway, though, from first glance at the scratched railing, Cade suspected otherwise.

Cade checked the calendar hanging on the cupboard near the back door, a Grumpy Cat calendar with notes scribbled all over it. Rachel, a true techie, still marked appointments on a hanging paper calendar. “Just so we’re all on the same page,” she used to say even though she kept a digital calendar on her phone and computer as well. Or at least she had when they were married. And there it was. Today’s date. The day Luke had died . . . and now, the same could be said of Violet Osbourne Sperry. Both violently. Twenty years apart. For a second he wondered if there was any connection, but he dismissed the stupid thought as quickly as it had come. A coincidence. Like people born on the same day.

Well, not really.

He glanced at Rachel’s phone and picked it up, then noticed that the screen was lit. As if someone had just been using it.

But no one was in the house.

Or...

The muscles in the back of his neck tensed. Again, he had the sensation he wasn’t alone, but as he walked through the first floor and swept his gaze through the rooms on the lower level, he saw no one, not in the living and dining areas nor in the mess that was his son’s bedroom. He paused for a second in Dylan’s space, noting the empty bottles and wrappers and mussed bedding. Clothes were tossed over the two chairs in front of a space-station of computers.

But no one hiding in here nor in Harper’s somewhat more organized chaos.

Then what?

It was the smell. The hint of cigarette smoke? Or his imagination? No one that he knew of smoked. Not Rachel. Not the kids . . . well, that he knew of. And besides, the odor was so faint . . . nah.

He even ignored the tightening in his chest and went upstairs for the first time since he’d left. The rooms had been changed, bedding and towels more feminine than when he lived here. But her robe was the same, a ratty old blue thing flung over the foot of the bed. He touched it. Swallowed and in his mind’s eye remembered how they’d made love the first night they’d bought the new mattress. The kids had been gone for the night and they’d spent the hours here, under this slanted ceiling, making love like teenagers. He remembered the taste of her skin, salty with sweat but smelling of that cologne that drove him crazy, how slick she’d been when . . .

Shhh.

Click.

What? He froze at the familiar sound, the sweep of the back door opening and closing before the latch caught.

How was that possible?

Before he finished the thought he was down the stairs and into the kitchen. The back door was closed but he walked through, into the backyard, and saw that the gate was ajar, moving slightly.

Had it been that way a moment before?

He didn’t think so and it seemed unlikely.

Sure enough it moved with the wind, unsecured. Which wasn’t the way Rachel ever kept the yard. And why the hell was the back door unlocked? Ever since the kids were young and the dog a pup, she’d been a nut about keeping the backyard secure, buttoned up tight.

His feet crunched on the wet gravel walkway. Pushing through the gate, he caught a glimpse of someone walking away, a block beyond, a man in a dark jacket and black pants, watch cap pulled low and hurrying beneath the branches of the fir trees from neighboring houses.

Had he been in the yard?

Or was he just a neighbor out for a walk?

Time to find out. Cade started running only to see the guy fumbling in the pocket of his jacket.

Oh, shit, did he have a weapon?