AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes.”
“Do you happen to know who her last client was today?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. She cooks for a family in Frontenac named Martino. They have a friendly dog, and she told me once she likes to end her workweek by playing with it for a few minutes before she leaves.”
It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had five minutes ago.
Jack ended the call, found a phone number for a Martino in the exclusive suburb Madeleine had referenced, and put a call in.
A woman answered, and he got straight to business after introducing himself.
Unfortunately, Lindsey’s client didn’t have much to offer.
According to her, Lindsey had been ready to leave when she got home about 5:30 and hadn’t lingered to chat.
Jack ended the call and skimmed his watch again. Tried Lindsey’s cell once more.
It rolled to voicemail.
He texted her.
His message went unanswered.
No more waiting.
He called Sarge.
It didn’t take long to convince his boss to make a court order to get her cell location a top priority. Not in light of all that had happened over the past month to their only witness in the Robertson case. Sarge also promised to get a BOLO alert in the works for her car.
Everything that could be done was being done.
Yet as Jack set the phone on the seat beside him, he knew deep in his bones it wasn’t enough. That while the previous pranks directed against Lindsey had been focused on inflicting mental rather than physical damage, the intent had changed.
This time, the endgame wasn’t deception and distress.
It was death.
BRUISED TEMPLE THROBBINGwhere it had connected with a shelf when Dr. Oliver shoved her into the closet, Lindsey squeezed her fingers into tight fists and tried to keep breathing.
It was impossible to know how long she’d been confined in the suffocating blackness, but at least she was safe for the moment.
All bets were off once the door opened again, however.
And when that happened, she had to be ready to defend herself.
But how?
It was the same question she’d been asking herself over and over once the shock had begun to wear off about the identity of James Robertson’s killer. The same person who’d been trying to push her over the edge of sanity these past few weeks.
While that still wasn’t computing, it was impossible to deny the reality.
Once again, she felt along the shelves, searching for something—anything—that could be put to use as a weapon.
But there was nothing in here other than towels and sheets, based on the textures of the fabrics. Metal hangers that had the potential to inflict damage were hard to find in linen closets. How in the world could she fashion the plush towels and four-hundred-thread-count sheets filling the shelves into a weapon?
Wait.
Shelves.
