Page 3 of In the Dead of Night

Using the flashlight, she made her way to the hall. The steps creaked beneath her feet as she descended the stairs and entered the foyer. The banging grew louder. She swept the beam right toward the kitchen. It was just the wind, she told herself. A piece of siding torn loose by the storm. But the flashlight beam trembled.

Thrusting the flashlight out before her like a weapon, she made her way to the kitchen. It was a cavernous room with cobalt tile countertops and intricately designed rosewood cabinetry. Once upon a time, it had been state-of-the-art. Her parents had enjoyed cooking and entertaining. Sara had spent many an afternoon sitting at the counter while her parents hovered over fancy canapés and hors d’oeuvres she couldn’t pronounce.

Dim light spilled in through the arched window above the sink. During the day the window offered a stunning view of a turbulent sea. Tonight, it held darkness and shadows and a vague threat Sara didn’t want to acknowledge.

Setting the flashlight on the counter, she went through each drawer. Relief slid through her when she finally unearthed a half-burned candle and a box of wooden matches.

“Who says I don’t have all the luck.”

She found a saucer in the cupboard, set the candle on it and lit the wick. Yellow light cast flickering images on the walls. Picking up the flashlight, she turned toward the utility room. She was midway through the kitchen when movement in her peripheral vision stopped her dead in her tracks.

Gasping, Sara spun. Her heart slammed against her ribs when she saw a shadow pass quickly past the window. She stumbled back, adrenaline burning her gut. The flashlight slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

Quickly, she snatched it up, but the bulb had gone out. She tapped it against the heel of her palm. When she glanced back at the window, the shadow was gone.

A terrible uneasiness stole over her. Someone was out there; she was sure of it. But why would they be at the back window of a vacant old house on a night like this? Vandals? Teenagers looking for a place to hang out? Or was something more ominous in the works?

The memory of the phone call flicked through her mind, conjuring a tinge of fear. Had she locked the front door? Was the garage locked? What about the patio doors?

Setting her hand on the cell phone clipped to her waistband, she doused the candle, knowing she would be less visible to an intruder in total darkness.

Never taking her eyes off the window, she backed from the kitchen. Her heart hammered as she moved silently through the hall toward the staircase. She could hear herself breathing hard. Blood roared like a jet engine in her ears. She passed the front door. Through the beveled glass, lightning flashed with blinding intensity, illuminating a tall figure draped in black and dripping with rain. A scream tore from her throat. She scrambled back, her hand shooting to the cell phone at her waist. The door flew open with a burst of wind and rain.

“Stop right there,” came a deep male voice.

Gripping her cell phone like a lifeline, she spun and ran for her life. Tearing through the foyer, she rounded the staircase and took the steps two at a time. All the while she tried desperately to remember if there was a lock on the bedroom door.

She heard the intruder behind her as she reached the upstairs landing. Heavy footsteps. A hint of labored breathing. The knowledge that she was alone with someone who could very well mean her harm. Her fingers trembled violently as she stabbed 911 into her cell.

“Stop! Cape Darkwood PD!”

The words barely registered over the jumble of fear. She dashed into the bedroom, spun to slam the door. But the man stuck his foot in. “Take it easy,” he said.

Facing the door, Sara stumbled back. In a small corner of her mind she heard the dispatcher’s voice coming over her cell phone. “There’s a prowler in my house!” she screamed.

The bedroom door swung open. The yellow beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness. The man stood silhouetted in the doorway. Sara looked around wildly for a weapon. Finding nothing, she glanced at the cell phone in her hand and threw it with all her might.

He ducked, but wasn’t fast enough. The phone struck the left side of his face. Grunting, he lifted his hand to his cheekbone.

“The police are on the way!” she cried.

Spotting the lamp on the night table, she snatched it up and mentally prepared herself to use it if he got any closer.

“I am the damn police,” he snapped. “Calm down.”

The words penetrated the veil of shock, slowed the hard rush of fear. He illuminated his face with the flashlight beam, and Sara lowered the lamp.

“I’m a cop,” he repeated. “Put down the lamp.”

He didn’t look like a cop. Wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt beneath a dark raincoat, he looked more like the villain in a slasher film. The thought made her shudder.

“I—I want to see your badge,” she managed.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” He shone the light at her, sweeping it from her head to her feet. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I own this place,” she said.

Sliding a badge from the pocket of his trench, he shoved it at her. “You’re the homeowner?”