Three (Count to Ten Book 3)

by Jane Blythe

  There was nowhere to go where he couldn’t find her if he wanted to.

  And if he hadn't been armed before, he certainly was now.

  Was he following her?

  Had she hit him when she got off a shot?

  She didn’t know the answer to either of those questions and she didn’t want to wait to find out.

  Feeling like an extra in a low budget horror movie, she fled to the closet in hers and Ryan’s bedroom. Burrowing herself inside, she almost certainly pointlessly covered herself with the extra quilts they stored in here.

  She attempted to hold her breath, so that her ragged breathing wouldn’t attract the man’s attention. Realizing that she had managed to keep hold of her cell phone when she’d dropped the gun, she quickly dialed Ryan.

  “Sorry, honey,” Ryan’s voice came through the phone seconds later. “I got held up, but I’m almost home.”

  Relief at both hearing his voice and knowing he would soon be here, left her momentarily speechless.

  “Sofia?” anxiety inched into his tone.

  “He’s back,” she whispered into the phone.

  “What?” anxiety changed swiftly into panic. “The stalker?”

  Footsteps approached. He had found her. “I have to go,” she told Ryan, hanging up before he had a chance to say more.

  Beneath the closet door, she could see a shadow.

  This was it.

  He was going to kill her.

  Sofia couldn’t believe she was going to die like this.

  “I'm here to help,” a calm voice told her. “I’ll take care of her for you. Don’t worry.”

  Curling herself up into a little ball, ignoring the burning protesting pain in her leg as she yanked it up against her chest, she began to whimper. Why hadn't she insisted they get a security system? Why hadn't she agreed to let Jack stay with her? Why hadn't she gone and spent the night at Edmund’s like he’d asked her to? Why did she always have to be so stubborn?

  Huddled on the floor of the closet, waiting for her stalker to rape her or kill her or both, she let out a petrified screech as the quilt she was hiding under was ripped off her. She thrashed wildly as hands grasped her shoulders. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  “Sofia. Sofia,” a voice slowly penetrated her terrified haze. “It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Ryan. You're safe now. He’s gone. Sofia.”

  Opening her eyes, it was indeed Ryan kneeling before her. Collapsing against his chest, she started grabbing huge handfuls of his sweater and clinging tightly.

  He wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  Sofia shook her head; she could feel the adrenalin rushing out of her system, leaving her drained and shaky.

  “What happened?” Ryan demanded, fear making his voice fierce.

  “I woke up, and…and something was…something was wrong. He was…in the kitchen…I shot at him,” she babbled. Her teeth were chattering so badly, it was making talking difficult.

  “You shot at him?” Ryan sounded incredulous.

  Only this time, Sofia couldn’t answer. Her body was trembling so violently that she couldn’t hold a coherent thought in her head. Someone had broken into her home. Again. She had fired a gun at someone. Possibly hit them. She had been sure that she was going to die. It was too much for her to deal with.

  Sensing her distress, Ryan grabbed the quilt he’d pulled off her and now wrapped it around her. “You’re safe, cupcake.” He had deliberately gentled his voice. Picking her up, he walked with her back downstairs, going into the living room and settling in a corner of the couch with her on his lap.

  While Ryan held her, stroked her hair, and murmured soothingly in her ear, Sofia concentrated on stilling the tremors racking her body. She thought that she was doing a good job at calming herself until she jumped a mile when the doorbell rang.

  “It’s just Jack,” Ryan reassured her. “It’s open,” he yelled.

  Moments later, Jack and a tall redheaded woman entered the room. “I knew I should have stayed,” Jack muttered, shooting her a half-frustrated, half-concerned frown.

  “Sofia said she shot at him,” Ryan informed the pair.

  “Did you hit him?” Jack asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “I'm not sure,” she answered, pleased when there was only a small wobble in her voice.

  “Where?” Jack asked.

  “Kitchen.” That time she couldn’t stop the wobble that rocketed through her body.

  Ryan exchanged glances with Jack above her head. “Are you going to be okay in here with Rose for a few minutes?” Ryan asked her.

  When she nodded, he eased her off his lap, tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Once they were alone, Detective Rose Lace, Jack’s partner, joined her on the couch. “You doing okay?” Rose asked, green eyes studying her carefully.

  “Yeah.” She tried to summon a smile. Even though Rose was Jack’s partner, she had gotten to know the woman more through Paige. Paige and Rose had been friends for years, and often when Sofia hung out with Paige, Rose would tag along. She liked Rose. The woman was outspoken, smart, and tough. She and Paige had promised to teach Sofia everything they knew about self-defense as soon as Sofia’s body could handle it.

  “I can't believe you shot at him,” Rose marveled.

  Sofia shrugged. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Rose questioned.

  “He said he wasn’t going to hurt me, that he wanted to help me. Then he kept saying he’d take care of her for me. I think he meant Isabella,” she explained. “He…he said that his whole world revolves around me.” Of the whole horrible night, that had been the most terrifying thing. To think that a man who was stalking her thought she was the most important thing in his life couldn’t be anything but bad.

  “Did he tell you who he was?” Rose asked.

  “No,” she whispered. “I asked him, but all he said was that he loved me.”

  “Did you see him?” Ryan asked from the doorway. He looked tense and a tad bit possessive himself, so Sofia knew he’d overheard what she’d told Rose.

  “Not well,” Sofia tried to put herself back in the moment so she could make sure she remembered every possible detail. “He was behind me at first. Then I felt him move toward me. I got scared,” she took a deliberately slow breath to calm herself. “I turned and shot at him. He stumbled toward me and I panicked. I dropped the gun and ran.”

  “When you turned, did you see him?” Jack asked gently.

  “It was dark,” she put in first. “All I know is that he was dressed all in black. He was wearing a hoodie so I couldn’t see his face.”

  “What about his voice?” Rose asked. “Did you recognize it? Do you think you’ve heard it before?”

  Considering this, Sofia honestly couldn’t be sure. She had been too scared and everything had happened too quickly. “I don’t know.”

  “All right,” Ryan came back over to join her on the couch, perching on the arm beside her. “Steph’s on her way over, and you can give your statement in the morning.”

  She suddenly realized that Paige wasn’t here, which was odd. Ryan was scared, seemingly rightly so as her stalker continued to escalate things. Usually when Ryan was scared, he called in the troops. Jack and Rose had come, but not Paige. It was totally unlike Ryan not to call his partner in unless there was a good reason. Plus, she hadn't heard from her friend in a couple of days. “Where’s Paige?” she asked Ryan.

  “I sent her home to bed,” he replied. Then when he read her confused expression, he added, “It’s a long story; I’ll tell you about it later.” Catching Rose’s concerned frown, Ryan said, “You should call her later, get her to tell you what’s going on.”

  “We’ll stay and wait for Stephanie, then lock up,” Jack offered. “You two go and get some rest.”

  When Ryan made a move to
pick her back up, she made an abortive effort to stand. “I can walk.”

  “I need to hold you,” Ryan told her as he lifted her into his arms.

  Understanding that Ryan needed to touch her right now to convince himself that she was okay, she allowed him to carry her back upstairs. Sinking down into his strong arms, Sofia was beyond glad Ryan was here. What would have happened if he hadn't arrived when he had? He had probably scared her stalker off. If he hadn't, would she be dead right now? And what happened if next time he couldn’t get here in time to save her? The stalker had come to their home twice in two days. His visits were escalating. And that couldn’t be a good thing.

  * * * * *

  2:04 A.M.

  Hmmm…this was quite an interesting turn of events.

  Not what he had expected.

  Ricky Preston had been following his next kill, Arthur Bentley, when the man had suddenly driven to an apartment in the middle of the night. Wondering what Arthur was up to, he had waited a few minutes then followed him inside.

  To his surprise, the scene that had met him was one he couldn’t have dreamed up in a million years.

  A young woman was dragging Arthur Bentley's unconscious body across the floor toward the bedroom. As he’d watched quietly in the shadows, she had pushed and shoved and heaved the body up onto the bed, where she had promptly secured him with layer after layer of duct tape.

  Intrigued, Ricky had wanted to know what the woman was up to.

  She didn’t look like Arthur Bentley's wife. Maybe the guy was having some sort of kinky affair. Maybe he was into that rough stuff where people role-played and tied each other up for sex.

  Or maybe this woman was here to kill Arthur.

  That was totally unacceptable.

  No one got in the way of his plans.

  Not even a beautiful woman.

  And Ricky thought the woman was beautiful. Not in a classic way, he supposed, but she appealed to him. She was tall and solid, with long red hair and sharp features. She was wearing a bright orange sweater that should clash with her bright red hair but somehow didn’t. But it was her eyes that had him. They were gray and serious, and lurking in their depths, he saw something that stirred him.

  He wanted to know more about her.

  He didn’t want to just approach her. If she was here to kill Arthur Bentley, then she had to be armed. Ricky couldn’t see a gun or knife, but there was a bag on the table, into which she had put her roll of duct tape and scissors, perhaps whatever she intended to use on Arthur was in there.

  Instead, it was safer to take her by surprise.

  Ricky hadn't come prepared for a confrontation. He had simply come to watch Arthur, make sure he knew the man’s movements and routines down to the tiniest detail, so he wasn’t armed.

  Giving a quick search of the living room, he found a heavy paperweight that would do the job. With years of practice under his belt, he moved stealthily toward the woman, who didn’t notice him until he was already swinging the paperweight at her head.

  As it connected, she dropped like a rock. He checked quickly to make sure she was still breathing, even though Ricky knew he was an expert at delivering incapacitating yet non-lethal blows. When his fingers found her pulse beating strongly, he grabbed a chair and the woman’s duct tape, then balanced her in the chair and quickly secured her in place.

  Once he had the woman taken care of, he went to Arthur Bentley on the bed. The man was lying flat on his back. Tape crossed his chest, his shoulders, and his legs—both at the knees and ankles, circling all the way under the bed. The woman had made sure to add multiple layers of tape, obviously concerned that the well-muscled and obviously strong Arthur might be able to get himself free if given the opportunity.

  One of Arthur's arms was positioned out straight, away from the rest of his body. She had used rope to tie his wrist to the headboard, then added more duct tape around his wrist, to make sure the rope held. Arthur appeared to still be out cold from whatever the woman had done to him.

  Interested to see what she intended to do to Arthur, Ricky decided to check out her bag while he waited for the woman to regain consciousness. Rifling through it, he was surprised to find medical supplies. Tubes and syringes and IV/blood collection bags. Now he was really curious about what exactly the woman had planned for Arthur Bentley.

  Turning back to check on the woman, he found serious gray eyes studying him. “You’re awake,” he smiled and took a step toward her. He expected to see fear flash through her, but instead she remained completely calm. It had to be an act.

  “Who’re you?” she asked.

  “Who’re you?” he asked back, moving closer so he was right beside her chair, hoping their proximity would force her to lose the act and show how scared she must be feeling.

  Instead, she simply shot him a small smile. “I asked you first.”

  He was impressed by her spunk, but determined not to let it show, he’d never met someone he couldn’t intimidate and the thought that perhaps this woman couldn’t be frightened by him was as exciting as it was annoying. Putting his face just inches from hers, he murmured, “I'm the man who’s going to kill you.” He pressed one hand to her chest and his other to her neck, expecting to feel her heart hammering and her pulse thumping. Instead they continued to beat rhythmically; she truly wasn’t afraid of him.

  She raised an eyebrow, “How?”

  “How, what?” he couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that this woman wasn’t even a little bit scared of him. Or death, apparently.

  “How are you going to kill me?” she asked patiently.

  The question left him stumped. And Ricky Preston had never been stumped before in his life. Fascinated by her, he asked instead, “Why aren’t you afraid of me? Why aren’t you afraid to die?”

  Her brow furrowed as though perplexed. “I'm a bad person. A killer. Death is what I deserve. If you're here to do it, then why should I be afraid of you?”

  Her answer was not what he had been expecting. “You're here to kill Arthur Bentley?”

  The look she shot him suggested she thought as well as being here to kill her, he was also an idiot. “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “What does it matter why?”

  “I want to know,” he replied honestly. He had never in his life met anyone like her.

  Considering this, then apparently taking him at his word, she explained. “He’s been cheating on his wife. I don’t like cheaters.”

  He was surprised to hear this. “Arthur Bentley is cheating on his wife? Already? He just got married. And not to you, by the way; you weren’t the woman with him at the hotel.”

  She shook her head. “No, Arthur had been married for years now. His wife is disabled. If you saw him at a hotel, then it was with one of his mistresses.”

  He wondered if this was a lover’s quarrel taken to the extreme. “Are you another of his mistresses?”

  Repulsion crossed her face. “Of course not,” she said indignantly.

  “Then why do you care if he’s a cheater?”

  “Because cheating destroyed my family, and besides, if I don’t kill people who deserve it, what else am I going to do with my life?” She looked up at him as though she truly didn’t know the answer to that.

  This was weird. Really weird. This woman appeared to be just like him. How was that even possible? He hadn't thought that there was anyone in the world like him. This was almost too weird to be true. What if it wasn’t? What if this was some weird police sting, and this woman was here to set him up? “You said you’re a killer; who have you killed?”

  She studied him for a moment. “Have you ever heard of the Everette family?”

  He was shocked; he had indeed heard of the Everette family, and the killer who had systematically worked their way through killing them a few months ago. “You're Isabella Everette?”

  She nodded. “I killed them because they deserved it, but now I can't seem to stop. I kind of like it,” she
admitted.

  He smiled at her, “Honey, I know the feeling.”

  Her gray eyes turned curious. “You know Arthur Bentley. You're not here to kill me, are you? You're here to kill him.”

  Lying to her never even occurred to him. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I like to kill. Arthur and I crossed paths and he appealed to me.”

  She was seemingly enthralled by his answer. “So, you don’t have to have a reason for killing someone? You just pick someone and do it?”

  “Uh huh,” he confirmed. “At least these days. Why? Do you feel like you need a reason?”

  She mulled that over. “I don’t know. I thought I did. I thought I had to justify it, but maybe I don’t.”

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, moving to the table where she had her bag of tricks and retrieving the scissors, then moving back to stand in front of her. “Maybe you're not alone anymore.”

  * * * * *

  3:11 A.M.

  Maybe you're not alone anymore.

  Those were the words that the man standing before her, with a pair of scissors in his hand, had just uttered.

  Was he going to kill her?

  No, Isabella didn’t think that he was. She wasn’t afraid of him. Hadn't been since the second she had awakened to find herself taped to a chair and a strange man going through her bag.

  At first he had tried to scare her, and he’d been surprised when he couldn’t.

  But what was there to be afraid of?

  Certainly not death.

  Obviously, Isabella knew that death was the end for everyone; she also knew that the consequences of her actions were that she would most likely die young—probably violently.

  Meeting and locking her gaze with his dark blue eyes, the man knelt before her, and cut the tape binding her. When he had her free, he reached for her hand, taking it gently in his, and pulled her to her feet. Then before she knew it, he had threaded a hand through her hair and was tilting her face up and bringing his lips toward hers.