Paranoid(51)

“Reno, stop!” she’d ordered, pushing back the covers in a mixture of annoyance and alarm. She hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, but usually the dog didn’t go off unless something was wrong.

Groaning, Rachel had forced herself to her feet and found her slippers, knowing she’d have to check the house from top to bottom. As soon as she opened the bedroom door, the dog disappeared down the stairs, as if honing in on a target.

Oh, God. Was someone in the house?

Pausing to grip the banister at the top of the staircase, Rachel had listened cautiously but heard only the staccato bark of the frantic dog. Pulse thrumming in her ears, muscles taut, she had hurried down.

“What’s wrong with you?” she’d called as she found the dog pacing at the front door, sniffing at the threshold.

Was someone there?

Biting back fear, she’d ignored her accelerating heartbeat and reached for the door handle to ensure the bolt had caught. It was locked, thank God, but that didn’t stop the dog from letting out a new string of guttural barks.

Reno was on alert. Nose to the door, he was ready to bolt outside. His flesh quivered, the fur on the back of his neck stood at attention, and he let out a high, nasal whine when she refused to open the door.

As if he’d scented a squirrel or raccoon or some other night creature daring to cross his yard.

“Oh, geez.” She let out a sigh. “Stop it.”

But the dog wasn’t about to give up and started scratching frantically at the door, ready to bolt outside and scare off or kill the invader.

“You’re being ridiculous. Stop it! Now,” she’d ordered and stood on her tiptoes to peer through one of the three small windows that ran across the top of the door. She half expected to see a coyote scurrying through the shadows. Instead she caught a glimpse of a smallish dog hurrying past, a man in dark clothes, cap over his ears, holding the animal’s leash in one hand, and something else—a bag of some kind—in the other.

Just a guy walking his dog.

At three in the morning?

Who walked their dog in the middle of the night?

She felt a frisson of fear scuttle down her spine as she watched the man glance back at the house, then hustle his dog into a white sedan parked three houses down. Within seconds he was driving off, taillights disappearing as he rounded the corner.

“It’s nothing,” she’d told the dog, but didn’t believe it for an instant.

It was odd.

Out of the ordinary.

What had her father said about things that seemed out of sync? That if something seemed wrong or out of place, it usually was.

She heard his advice as if he were standing next to her: “Pay attention, Rach. It’s the little inconsistencies, something a bit unusual, a tiny detail that a person remembers that often is the start to cracking a case.”

Her calves had begun to ache from the strain of standing on her tiptoes, so she’d lowered herself and tried to twist the knob and open the door. It didn’t budge. Locked securely. She started her security ritual, heading down to the basement to double-check that every lock was engaged, every dead bolt thrown, every window unmoving until she was certain the house couldn’t be breached. Although she knew the house was secure, she didn’t feel safe. Not tonight.

“We’ll be fine,” she’d told the dog as she’d settled into bed again.

But she’d known it was a lie.

Now, her body was riddled with exhaustion, jacked with stress.

Anxiety was nothing to sneeze at; nothing to ignore. Rachel knew it. But as she stared at the pills in her medicine cabinet, she couldn’t get herself to pop one. She’d been off the Xanax for weeks now and taking the medication seemed like a step backward. Even though she realized that wasn’t the case, she didn’t want to lean on any more medication. She palmed the bottle, counted the pills, making certain no more had gone missing. All accounted for, but maybe she should have pushed the kids harder. Was she too loose with them? A bad parent. Well, she’d have a look in their rooms today, before they got home. A parent’s prerogative.

She recapped the bottle and threw on running clothes, snapped on Reno’s leash, and headed out.

Her nerves were still jangled from lack of sleep, and throughout the weekend she’d felt a trepidation about her solo runs in the early morning, but she refused to be intimidated. Couldn’t allow it. With her dog by her side and pepper spray in her pocket, she headed out the back door and pushed through the gate into the street. Reno kept pace as she ran downhill toward town, where a lingering mist still clung to the river. The air was crisp, the sky a promising, bold blue, and she suspected the mist would burn off by noon.

The cool air should have cleared her head, but instead the text floated through her mind.

I forgive you.

Received twenty years from the day of Luke’s death.

Of course she’d first thought of her brother; he was the one person whom she’d so horribly wronged, but he was long dead and she didn’t think St. Peter was handing out cell phones at the pearly gates. Nope. The text was from a living, breathing person, either a mistake or a prank.

And she was leaning toward the idea that it was sent in error. She avoided a puddle and kept running, thinking of anyone who might have sent it. One of the people at the reunion meeting? Someone close to Luke?

Lila, who’d been left to deal with having his baby?