Keep Her Safe(101)

“No. And that’s a few hours old, at least.” I can tell by the dark line that’s formed around the original drop.

“Maybe Cyclops cut himself?”

“He was outside all day. Besides, the pantry door was closed.”

Throwing her bra and shirt back on, she climbs off my lap and heads out to the kitchen, whistling for him. Meanwhile, a sinking suspicion begins to settle into my stomach.

I stand to get a better look at the floor. That’s when I notice the second blood spot. And a third.

All surrounding my mother’s safe.

Fumbling for my wallet, I fish out the safe combination. Careful not to smear the remaining blood spots, I quickly dial the numbers. I throw open the door.

Four guns still hang in their slots and, while I never counted the boxes of ammunition, it looks like they’re all accounted for.

Everything seems normal.

That is, until I crouch down to inspect the bottom shelf more closely, and spot the brown lunch bag. It’s crinkled with age and handling, and stuffed in a small gap between the ammo and the shelf, at the back.

Did I miss that before?

Did Silas miss it too?

Swallowing against my growing anxiety, I use the hem of my shirt to ease the bag out.

Inside is a handgun.

A Colt .45.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, instantly aware. That’s got to be Abe’s gun. Has it been here all along?

Or did someone break in here today and plant it? If they did . . . how? No one has this combination except me.

Either way, someone was definitely in this house while we were out.

I grab my mom’s Glock and, checking the chamber to make sure it’s loaded, I charge for the backyard, hyperaware of the fact that the alarm was set when we left, which means that person circumvented the system. Someone with the equipment and the know-how to do it.

I find Gracie outside, talking to Mr. Stiles over the fence.

“ . . . he was making one heck of a racket earlier.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to be gone—”

“You can’t leave dogs outside for hours, unattended!” my neighbor, with his hands on his hips, his gray hair mussed and standing on end, scolds Gracie.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes in a placating voice that’s so foreign to her. “He’s normally a quiet dog.”

I tuck the gun into the back of my pants and then ease in behind Gracie, settling my hands on her shoulders. Missing the feel of her hands on mine.

“He was barking because someone broke into my house,” I explain.

Gracie tenses. “What?”

“A robbery!” Shock fills Mr. Stiles’s weathered face, the thought of it happening in our peaceful neighborhood appalling. “But don’t you have an alarm?”

“We do.” And common, dumb criminals won’t get past it. But seasoned cops with a history of sneaking in and threatening widowed women are another story. Still, for them to gain access to the safe . . .

“Well, I can’t blame the little guy for all the noise, then.” Stiles’s gray eyes search out Cyclops. He frowns. “What’s he got over there?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” I mutter, following Stiles’s gaze to the far corner of the yard, where the dog is furiously digging in the garden. “Hey! Stop that!”

He peers up at me with a piece of tan-colored material dangling from his mouth.

“Come here, Cy!” Gracie calls.

He trots over obediently, dropping the strip in front of us.

“What is that?” Gracie lifts it in the air so we can all see it more closely.

One side of the material is hemmed while the other side was clearly torn. A spot of crimson stains it. “It looks like it could be from a pant leg!” Mr. Stiles chuckles. “Heck, I think your dog took a chunk out of the burglar!”

“Maybe right out of the guy’s calf. I’ll bet he’s in pain, wherever he is.”

Like possibly in a room with Klein, being questioned by the FBI.

Realization fills Gracie’s face as she catches my drift.

Mr. Stiles’s amusement vanishes abruptly. “You need to call the police, Noah. If there’s a thief targeting homes in this neighborhood—”

“Yes, sir. We’ll get right on that. Sorry again for the noise.” I lead Gracie into the house, Cyclops trotting closely behind, his nose pressed to the floor.

“What do you think that asshole took?” she asks, her voice hard. She’s furious, I realize. And here I was sure she’d be terrified.

“I don’t know if he took anything.” I show her the gun inside the brown bag. “It’s a Colt .45.”

Understanding fills her face. “Is it my dad’s?”

“I’m guessing so . . . yeah.”

“Are you saying Stapley put that in there?”

“Someone did.”

“But . . .” She frowns. “It’s a gun safe. People aren’t supposed to be able to open them. How did he get in there?”

“I don’t know.” Did he actually get into it? Or did he simply try?

Did I miss seeing the bag in the first place?

It’s as if she can read my mind. “Maybe your mom had it all this time.” Accusation doses her words as her gaze wanders the pantry shelves aimlessly, as if searching for an answer among the cans and supplies.