“It’s my job.”
“You could have become an investment banker like your father. Or maybe a broker.” She looked at her husband. “She would have made a terrific broker, Peter, don’t you think?”
“I think Katie can do anything she sets her mind to,” he said diplomatically.
“Katherine, you could be making twice what you’re making now and working half as many hours. We’d probably even get to see you more often. Peter was just telling me that if you were to get your license, the firm would make a place for you right away.”
“A vice president position,” her father added.
“I love my job,” Kate said simply.
Isobel snorted haughtily. “How can you love dealing with murderers and rapists and God only knows what else?”
To the outsider looking in, the words wouldn’t appear harsh, but Kate felt them like a slap. “I like putting criminals behind bars and getting justice for the victims.”
“What about when justice isn’t done?” Isobel said.
“Isobel,” Peter warned, “leave her be.”
Kate looked at her mother. She could tell by the light in the other woman’s eyes that she was just getting warmed up. That this wasn’t going to be pleasant. And she knew that coming here tonight had been a mistake.
“You’re right, Mother. The system isn’t perfect and, unfortunately, not every case turns out well.” Kate concentrated on putting the cake back into the box and closing the lid. “All I can do is my best.”
“And when your best isn’t good enough?”
“Isobel, please,” Peter said.
“Most of the time my best is enough,” Kate said.
Isobel looked at her for a long time before asking, “Why do you do it, Katherine?”
“Because I can make a difference. Because I’m good at what I do.”
An unpleasant smile twisted her mother’s mouth. “Is that all?”
The old pain twisted inside her. “If you have something to say, Mother, maybe you ought to just say it.”
Isobel’s eyes went cold. “Maybe you think you have something to atone for.”
“Issy, that’s enough,” Peter said sharply.
Kate’s mother ignored the warning and came around the bed to face her daughter. “The head nurse told me you come here almost every day.”
“She’s my sister,” Kate snapped. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re too busy to visit us, but you’re never too busy to stop in and see your sister.”
“Kirsten takes a hell of a lot less energy,” Kate said levelly.
Isobel’s eyes blazed. “Or maybe it’s guilt that’s driving you, Kate. Maybe you feel you have an obligation to Kirsten. Did you ever stop to think about that?”
“Isobel!” Closing the book he’d been pretending to read, Peter sprang out of the recliner and glared at his wife. “She has nothing to feel guilty about.” He looked at Kate, his expression apologetic. “She had a few drinks before we left the house.”
Isobel’s laugh was bitter. “Oh, you think you know your daughter so well.”
“Of course I do.”
Isobel turned cool blue eyes on her daughter. “Why is it that the innocent ones are always the ones to pay for the things we sinners do?”
Kate stared at her mother, her heart pounding, the anger and hurt twisting inside her like a knife. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you.”
“That’s it, Katherine. Go ahead and walk away. Go put some slimy son of a bitch in jail if that’s what it takes for you to live with yourself.”
“Isobel, my God!” Peter shouted.
Kate’s legs were shaking when she crossed to Kirsten and kissed her forehead. “Good night, kiddo,” she whispered.
“It should be you lying in that bed instead of Kirsten,” Isobel said.
“That’s enough!” Peter strode to his wife and took her arm. “Get a hold of yourself.”
But Isobel shook him off, her eyes never leaving Kate. “If you hadn’t lured her from the house that night, none of this would have happened and I’d have both of my daughters instead of just one.”
At the door Kate turned and met her mother’s gaze. “You’d still just have one.”
Peter started toward her, but Kate raised her hand to stop him. “I’m fine,” she said and fled.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 31, 8:16 P.M.
He watched her from within the shadows of his Lexus.
She didn’t even look up as she descended the steps of the convalescent home and started toward the parking lot. Stupid for someone so intimately acquainted with crime not to be more aware of her surroundings.
She’d probably acquired more than a few enemies in the years she’d been working in the district attorney’s office. If something were to happen to her, her past cases would be the first place the police would look. The thought of just how many ways he could play the situation pleased him. Talk about red herrings.
He watched her, liking the way her long strides ate up the asphalt as she crossed to her BMW. The wind had picked up, and he could see her long coat flapping about her calves, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to run his hands over those calves. If they were as sleek and pretty as the rest of her . . .
Something hot and uncomfortable jittered low in his gut when he imagined her flesh slick with sweat. The reaction surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed an assignment. He knew it was twisted, but the thought of fucking a woman he was probably going to end up killing excited him.
A smile touched his mouth as he watched her dig in her bag for her keys. Preoccupied after visiting her sister, no doubt. Tired after a long day. A crime waiting to happen.
He hit a button and the window slid down in time for him to hear her engine start. The headlights popped on, and an instant later she was pulling from the lot.
He waited a full thirty seconds before starting the Lexus. He was already familiar with her routine and knew she would drive straight home. She always went home after visiting her sister. She was never out past ten o’clock. Never went out on dates. Not a very exciting life for a twenty-eight-year-old looker. He’d had enough women in his life to know they had needs just like men. Even uppity bitches like Kate Megason.
Her car had already disappeared onto Mockingbird Lane by the time he pulled from the lot. She drove like a bat out of hell, but he knew where she was going. The fact that she was a creature of habit was going to make this job a breeze.
He pulled onto the street and followed.
His assignment was to intimidate. Frighten. Terrify. But the man had told him that may change. When and if the time came, he would make it look as if one of her past cases had come back to haunt her. A logical assumption that would take the heat off of him and the people who’d hired him. A single shot to the head, and it would be done.
If all went well, he would be sipping mojitos at some obscure little café in South Beach by the end of the week. Holding that thought, he hit the gas.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 31, 11:58 P.M.
Kate knew she was pushing herself too hard. Working too many hours. Getting up too early. Staying up too late. But pacing herself was the one aspect of her job she’d never quite gotten the hang of.
She’d been staring at her laptop screen for so long the words were starting to blur. Her eyes felt as if someone had tossed sand in them, and the tiny particles grated against her eyeballs every time she blinked. Her neck and back were beginning to ache.
Kate knew she should have indulged in a hot bath and called it a night upon arriving home from the convalescent home. But the scene between her and her mother kept replaying in her mind’s eye.
Maybe you think you have something to atone for.
The words echoed uncomfortably inside her head. It was the first time Isobel Megason had spoken them aloud, and even though Kate had always suspected her mother blamed her, it still hurt.
The scene in Kirsten’s room was one of many i
n the last eleven years. In the weeks following the incident, Kate had been too immersed in her own misery to notice the way her mother looked at her. But as the long road to healing began, seventeen-year-old Kate had begun to see things more clearly.
The realization that her mother blamed her for what happened had shattered what was left of Kate’s heart. After all, it had been her idea to sneak out of the house that night. Her idea to buy the beer. She’d cajoled until Kirsten had agreed to accompany her. To this day there was still a part of Kate that blamed herself. . . .
“Enough.” Pushing away from the desk, she rubbed her eyes. She could tell by the soreness that she’d strained them again. “So much for pacing,” she muttered.
She was in the process of saving the file she’d been working on when the screen blinked and Kate found herself plunged into darkness.
Realizing the electricity had gone out, she let out a long sigh. “Crap.”
More concerned with the possibility of data loss than the power outage, Kate rose and started for the kitchen. There, she snagged the flashlight from the top of the fridge, used the beam to locate a spare fuse in the drawer, and headed toward the garage. She was nearly to the hall when movement at the window above the sink sent a hot zing of adrenaline through her belly.
Heart pounding, she snapped off the flashlight. Never taking her eyes from the window, she pressed her back flat against the wall and ordered herself to stay calm.
For a full minute Kate stood there, shaking, her breaths coming shallow and fast. Around her the house was so quiet she could hear the wind whipping through the trees. Dead leaves skittering across the driveway. The ticking of the mantel clock in the study. The rhythmic drip of water in the sink a few feet away. Slowly her pulse began to slow. Had she seen someone outside the window? Or had she seen nothing more than the silhouette of the tree branches as they swayed in the wind?
Taking a final look at the window, she switched on the flashlight. “You’re jumping at shadows, Megason,” she whispered.
But she was thinking about the bandanna that had been left on her porch a few days earlier. Her senses were on high alert when she checked the bolt lock on the back door. Finding it secure, she proceeded through the utility room and into the two-car garage where the fuse box was located. Her stocking feet were silent against the concrete floor as she crossed to the fuse box.
The sight of the folded piece of paper tucked into the seam made her blood run cold. Her hand was shaking when she plucked it out and unfolded it.
I could have had you tonight the same way I had you eleven years ago. Are you still as sweet as you were when you were seventeen, Katie? Do you smell the same? Would you still cry out in pain? Or have you come to like it? I can’t wait to find out . . .
Kate couldn’t believe what she was reading. Nobody knew what had happened eleven years ago. How could someone have written this?
The realization that someone had been in the garage struck her brain like a bullet. Lowering the paper, she looked toward the pet door that led to the backyard. The family who’d lived in the house before her had had two Newfoundland retrievers. A giant breed that had required a large pet door. Kate had always planned on replacing it, but it was one of those household tasks she’d never gotten around to.
Raising the flashlight, she shone the beam on the pet door. The rubber weather flap swayed in the wind. The opening was large enough for a man to crawl through, which meant someone could have gained access to the garage and tampered with the fuse box. In fact, they could be hiding in the garage. . . .
A sound sent her heart slamming against her ribs. She jerked the light in the direction of the sound, but the car was in the way. And she knew that whomever had placed the note in the fuse box was still in the garage.
She backed toward the door. “The police are on the way,” she called out. But her voice was breathless with fear.
Something clattered to the floor to her right. Gasping, she jerked the beam to the corner where a steel-shelving unit was stacked with gardening tools. A hand shovel lay on the concrete floor. She stared at the shovel, certain it hadn’t been there that morning when she’d left for work.
Kate was not easily frightened. But standing in the cold silence of her garage with nothing more than a flashlight for protection, she was afraid.
Lunging back, she darted into the house. She slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. Spinning, she ran through the utility and into the kitchen. Her stocking feet were silent against the tile as she darted to the phone, snatched it up, and punched 911.
“I want to report a prowler,” she blurted.
Another layer of fear settled over her when she realized the line was dead. “Hello?” She hit the plunger several times, but the line remained silent. “Hello?”
Kate couldn’t believe this was happening. She could feel the fingers of panic digging into her, stealing her control. “Cell phone,” she whispered, trying to remember where she’d left it.
I could have had you tonight the way I had you eleven years ago. . . .
A gasp escaped her when the kitchen doorknob rattled. She spun. A scream tore from her throat when she saw the silhouette of a man through the glass. She’d checked the lock; it was secure. But if he broke the glass he could be inside in a matter of seconds. . . .
Dropping the phone, Kate leapt into a sprint and raced through the living room. Breaths tore raggedly from her throat as she burst into her bedroom in search of her cell phone. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Where is it?”
Her heart pounded like thunder in her veins. She could feel the panic encroaching. The terror grabbing her and shaking her like a giant beast.
She spotted her purse on the night table. Dashing to it, she yanked out the phone and punched 911. The operator had barely answered when Kate shouted, “I want to report a prowler! He’s trying to get into my house. 3553 Bluffview! Hurry!”
Taking the phone with her, she strode to the night table and removed the .22 mini-magnum revolver. Kate had taken the state-required test to qualify for her concealed weapon permit; she went to the range every couple of months. But the tiny revolver felt inadequate in her hands as she wrapped her fingers around the grip and pulled back the hammer with her thumb.
There was no lock on her bedroom door, so she didn’t bother closing it. If someone was in the house, she wanted to see him coming. Kate had vowed a long time ago she would never let anyone hurt her again. She would kill to protect herself. Or she would die trying.
Leveling the gun on the doorway, she moved to a corner of the bedroom. She crouched, shaking, listening. But all she heard was the wind in the trees. The frantic beat of her heart. And the echoing whisper of winter-dead leaves.
FOURTEEN
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 8:15 A.M.
“Congratulations.” Mike Shelley handed Kate a copy of the Dallas Morning News across his desk. “You’re famous.”
“What is it?” Dread curdled in her gut as she took the newspaper from her boss.
“A potential problem,” he said. “Have a seat.”
A ripple of unease moved through her when she saw her name in prominent black and white on the front page of the Metro Section. “Must have been a slow night for news,” she muttered, sinking into the chair.
Assistant DA Reports Prowler in North Dallas Home
Last night at just after midnight, police received a 911 call from the North Dallas home of Dallas County Assistant District Attorney Kate Megason. Upon arriving on the scene, police found an armed Megason, who has a legal concealed weapon license, but no sign of the purported prowler.
Megason, who has been with the district attorney’s office for two years, has gained a fair amount of media attention because of her tough stance on crime. In a press conference on Wednesday, District Attorney Mike Shelley announced that Megason would be prosecuting Bruton Ellis, the man charged with gunning down two Dallas convenience store clerks. Megason will be seeking the death penalty.
Kate looked up from t
he newspaper and made eye contact with her boss. “I can’t believe this garnered space in the metropolitan newspaper of a city the size of Dallas.”
“Were you going to bother telling me about it?”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts, but her heart rate was up. She was perturbed by the story and uneasy because she could tell he was pissed. “This sounds a lot worse than it really was.”
“You’re about to prosecute a capital case. You reported a prowler last night. Did it cross your mind that those two things could be related?”
“Look,” she said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “My electricity went out. I heard a noise in the garage. I got spooked, and I overreacted. There was no prowler.”
“Kate, how long have we known each other?”
“Three years.”
“Long enough for me to know you don’t overreact.”
“Mike . . .”
“Tell me what happened,” he snapped. “And don’t leave anything out.”
Quickly Kate recapped the incident from the night before, beginning with her electricity blinking off and ending when the two police cruisers arrived on the scene. She played down how frightened she’d been. She didn’t tell him about the note. In fact, she hadn’t even told the police about the note. She knew omitting pertinent information wasn’t a very smart thing to do. But Kate had a terrible feeling that what happened last night hadn’t been some random prowler.
There had been someone in her garage. But she didn’t think it was related to the Bruton Ellis case. Whoever had been in her garage was somehow connected to what happened eleven years ago. That was the one thing she did not want dredged up.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” Mike said when she finished.
“To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think it was important enough to mention to you this morning.”
“Or maybe you wanted to see if this would slide by unnoticed because you don’t want anything getting in the way of your prosecuting the Bruton Ellis case.”