Afraid it might be a gunman, Sophia dropped to her knees so she could use the Hummer as a shield. She definitely didn’t want to run for the house and draw the danger toward Rafe or be shot while she was crossing the yard. But there were no shots. The Ranchero stopped across the street, a door opened and closed, and the heavy step of a man approached.
Taking her gun from its holster, Sophia held it ready as she peered around the front bumper of the Hummer. Then she breathed a huge sigh of relief. It wasn’t a gunman. It was Starkey. She would’ve recognized his shape and walk anywhere. Where he’d gotten that Ranchero, she didn’t know, but since he’d wrecked his motorcycle it seemed he was always driving something different.
Sagging against the tire, she lowered her gun and breathed deeply to counteract the adrenaline pumping through her system. With Starkey’s arrival, she knew she and Rafe had a fight on their hands. He wouldn’t be happy with Rafe’s defection. But at least this was a familiar fight. Not a life-threatening one.
He hadn’t spotted her. He walked straight past her and up to the door with the determination of someone who was angry and felt he had every right to be.
Not in any rush to get into an argument with him, Sophia returned her gun to its holster. She still had to get the ledger evidence from the car. She figured she’d do that first, hide it in her garage, then go inside to support Rafe.
She was just getting to her feet when she heard two blasts from inside.
Starkey broke into a run and threw open the door. Sophia barely had a chance to wonder why it was unlocked when a third shot echoed through the otherwise silent night.
For a moment, she felt as if she was watching the scene from much farther away. Probably because she couldn’t get to Starkey fast enough. It felt as though she was living one of those dreams where she ran and ran and ran but couldn’t move. She wasn’t even sure if she’d yelled his name. Maybe she’d only screamed it in her head. Everything froze for three or four heartbeats, just long enough for her to grasp what had happened, then jolted into fast-forward.
Starkey had been shot. She’d heard him cry out and hit the door as the bullet knocked him back. She’d grabbed her gun and started across the lawn before realizing that it wouldn’t do him or Rafe any good if she walked into a bullet. Instead of continuing to the doorway, she returned to the Hummer and ducked behind it to collect her fractured thoughts.
Was Starkey dead? What about Rafe? She’d heard two shots before the one that’d hit Starkey….
Oh, God! Someone had come after her. Whoever it was had beaten her home and encountered Rafe instead of her, exactly as she’d feared.
Blinking to clear the tears that automatically welled up, blurring her vision, she called 911 on her cell phone. She asked county dispatch to send her some backup and an ambulance, then climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the Hummer into the driveway, where she wouldn’t be visible from any of the windows when she got out.
After hiding the photocopies she’d made at the feed store beneath the seat, she locked up and dashed over to the side door of her garage. She had no idea what she’d encounter when she went inside. For all she knew the person who’d just shot Starkey could be coming out the same door. Or, if he’d stuck around long enough to see that he’d shot the wrong person, he could be waiting for her….
There was no way to tell. But whether the gunman was in the house or not, she had to enter. She couldn’t call the police and stand safely on the sidelines, because she was the police. And the last she knew, Rafe had been inside. If he lay bleeding on the floor like Starkey, she had to get to him before it was too late.
The hope that she might be able to reach them both in time gave her the courage she needed. I’m coming, she promised silently, and cracked open the garage door.
Nothing happened.
She listened for any sound of movement, but there was only silence.
Prepared for the worst, she slipped into the garage and weaved through the boxes of Christmas decorations and extra clothing she’d put into storage during spring cleaning. As far as she could tell, she was alone. But she hadn’t entered the house yet.
The door was locked. Fortunately, she had her keys in her pocket.
As she unlocked the door, she listened carefully—and thought she heard a strange noise. Crying? Her name being called?
Was it Rafe? Or Starkey, begging for help?
She couldn’t decide. When she listened again, she could no longer hear it.
Please, God, let Rafe be okay. Starkey, too.
The click of the tumbler sounded abnormally loud. She was afraid it might give away her approach, but using the wooden panel of the door as a shield, she pushed it open and braced for attack.
If there was someone inside, waiting for her, the noise hadn’t drawn him out.
Now! she told herself and stuck her head inside, once again waiting, listening…. To silence.
Eyes wide and heart pounding, she led with her gun as she crept into the kitchen.
Pale streamers of moonlight filtered through the window over the sink. From what Sophia could see, Rafe had never had the chance to make himself a sandwich. The kitchen was just as she and Rod had left it.
Cringing to think of what might’ve stopped him, she walked toward the living room.
From where the kitchen met the living room, Sophia could see the couch, the TV and her favorite painting hanging on the opposite wall. And she already knew what she’d find if she came far enough into the room to face the front door—Starkey. It was what might be lurking near the slider leading onto her back porch that worried her. Judging by what had happened, the gunman had either been waiting in the alcove near the bookshelves or he’d been coming out of her bedroom. He couldn’t have fired from the kitchen because the front door would’ve blocked his vision when it first started to open. The bedroom didn’t seem viable, either, since there was no exit. Sophia couldn’t imagine that the shooter would place himself in a situation he couldn’t escape.
Was the culprit still around? Or had he fled after the shooting?
Part of her hoped he’d taken off. That would allow her to focus on saving Starkey and finding Rafe. The other part craved justice for even the chance that one or both of them might die.
Crouching so her antique secretary would obstruct the path of any bullets, she came out of the kitchen and leaned around the furniture, pointing her gun in the direction of the slider.
It stood open, the space around it shadowy but empty. Either the gunman was gone… Or he wanted her to believe he was.