Laura froze. She didn’t know what to do.
The person on the other side of the door stopped tugging at the knob. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the brass flap to the mail slot in the door flipped up.
Laura saw a set of eyes peering in at her through the opening. She screamed and ran back toward the family room to grab her phone. But just as she reached the sofa, she saw a second man on the other side of the sliding glass door. He wore baggy cargo pants, a dark Windbreaker, and a knit hat. He glared at her and started tugging at the door handle.
She could clearly see his face—and the dull, cruel eyes. She’d seen that face on TV less than an hour ago. It didn’t seem possible.
Panic-stricken, she stood there and watched him struggle with the lock.
Laura grabbed her phone from the sofa. She remembered the gun in the bedroom closet upstairs. She swiveled around and headed toward the front of the house.
In the hallway, she stumbled and dropped the phone. It slid across the floor. She hadn’t dialed 9-1-1 yet. Laura left the phone on the floor and raced up the stairs. She and Sean had an old landline on the nightstand in their bedroom.
She staggered up the last couple of steps to the second floor and ran down the hallway to the master bedroom. Shutting the door behind her, she locked it and then snatched the phone off her nightstand. She dialed 9-1-1.
Breathless, she listened.
Nothing.
Laura anxiously tapped on the phone cradle. There was no dial tone. The line was dead. She realized they must have cut the outside phone wire.
Just then, she heard glass shattering downstairs. Someone had broken a window—maybe the window in the kitchen door.
Ducking into the closet, Laura frantically searched through Sean’s sweaters on the upper shelf. She got on her tiptoes. The gun was somewhere behind one of the neat stacks. Sweaters toppled down from the shelf. One landed on her face, and she brushed it aside. She was crying by the time she finally found the revolver.
She had no idea how to fire the weapon. Though no expert himself, Sean had tried to teach her how to use it, but she hadn’t wanted to even touch the damn thing. Now she wished she’d paid more attention to him.
She heard whispering downstairs. It wasn’t the TV.
Desperate, she glanced out the bedroom window, hoping to find a way to climb outside and escape. She saw a car parked in the driveway, and her heart leapt. For a second, she thought someone had just driven up and might rescue her. But then she realized it was the same car they’d described on TV—the red Hyundai the two killers had stolen.
She heard the rumble of them running up the stairs. The footsteps got louder. One of them tugged at the doorknob. Laura watched it twitch back and forth. They started pounding on the door. She thought they’d break it down.
Fumbling with the gun’s safety, Laura fired a warning shot. She winced and saw a little explosion of plaster in the wall by the doorway frame. The feel of the gun going off in her hand scared the hell out of her.
It must have frightened them, too, because the banging suddenly stopped. She heard murmuring.
“I’ve got a gun!” Laura called out nervously. Like they don’t already know that, she thought. Laura hated the way she sounded like a terrified little girl. She took a deep breath. “I’ve called the police!” she warned, more control in her voice this time. “They’ll be here any minute now. My purse is downstairs—on the kitchen counter. There’s money in it. Take what you want and leave!”
“We have your phone, Laura,” one of the men called back to her. His voice was ironically gentle.
They know my name, she thought.
“And we’ve cut the phone line,” he continued. “We know the police aren’t coming. It’s useless to pretend. Now, open up. We promise we won’t hurt you . . .”
“That’s not the only cell phone I have!” she yelled, moving toward the window again. She wondered if they’d believe her lie. “I mean it! The police are on their way! Just leave, okay? I don’t want to hurt anyone either. Now, get back . . .”
She remembered the phone in the wine-tasting house. It must have been an overseer’s cottage at one time. In the back part of the shop, by the restroom, was a big closet with a black rotary-dial phone on the wall, and it still worked. Laura could see the cottage from her window, and the phone wire was still intact. At least, she was pretty sure it was a phone wire.
She heard one of them whispering again. A floorboard squeaked.
Laura leaned closer to the window. Shortly after moving in, she’d checked possible escape routes from the second and third floors—in case of a fire. But it had always been from a window in one of the kids’ bedrooms—never from here. Now she realized she might be able to climb out the window onto the front porch roof and then scuttle down the drainpipe. There were a lot of places on the property where she could hide after calling the police.
Trying not to make any noise, she carefully opened the window. Cold air drifted into the room.
She could still hear them murmuring to each other in the hallway. It sounded like a hushed argument. “I don’t give a shit!” one of them finally bellowed.
There was a click, and another click. Then a shot rang out.
Laura spun around in time to see the lock blasted off the bedroom door.
In a panic, she fired the gun again, completely missing both men as they charged into the room. The bigger one—with the cruel eyes—barreled in first.
The younger man grabbed his friend’s arm. “No, Vic, please, don’t! We don’t want to hurt her!”
Her back against the wall, Laura tried to fire the gun again.
But the big man lunged at her and threw her onto the floor. The gun flew out of her hand.
“Don’t hurt her!” the younger man cried. “We need her!”
Bent over her, the man had his fist clenched. And yet he hesitated.
For a moment, Laura thought he might not hit her.
“Bitch,” he grunted.
She saw his fist whooshing toward her face. There was a loud crack and, with it, an awful pain.
Then Laura saw nothing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday—10:17 A.M.
When Laura came to, she was on the floor. The young man hovered over her and gently dabbed a cold washcloth to her lower lip. She noticed blood on the cloth.
She lay there for a moment, afraid to move. She recognized him as the Singletons’ caretaker. She remembered his name from the TV news: Joseph Mulroney.
Laura figured she’d been unconscious a few minutes, long enough for the other one to have gone through her and Sean’s dresser drawers. He’d made a mess of it, too. Clothes were strewn on the floor. A few drawers had even been completely yanked out of the dressers and emptied.
Her attacker—the older, huskier one, Victor Something—had taken off his jacket and stocking cap. He had pale skin, a buzz cut, and a pug face. With his manic, twitchy manner, he seemed hopped up on something. He rifled through her jewelry drawer.
“Are these real pearls?” he asked, holding up a necklace that had belonged to Sean’s late mother.
Stupefied, Laura gazed at him.
The younger man turned toward his friend. “We’re not stealing anything,” he said. “I told you that three times already.”
The man frowned at him and put the necklace back in the drawer.
Joseph Mulroney handed her the damp washcloth. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
Laura just stared at him.
“The gun I took away from you,” his friend, Victor, said. “Is it the only one in the house?”
Laura figured if he wasn’t looking for valuables to steal, then maybe he’d been searching for another gun. “It’s the only one,” she finally answered.
“You lied earlier about having an extra phone. Why should we believe you now?”
Glaring back at him, Laura sat up and leaned back agai
nst the wall. “Because it’s the truth, and I know if you found another gun in the house I’d be in real trouble, wouldn’t I?”
“Bet your ass, lady.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Joseph murmured.
Laura couldn’t figure out what was going on with these two. Just minutes ago, she’d thought they were about to kill her. Now, the younger one acted like he really cared about her—and the other one, Victor, probably could have shot her dead right there without giving it a second thought.
He pulled the revolver out from where he had tucked it in the back of his pants—under his shirttail. “So where are the bullets for this thing?”
“In the closet—on the upper shelf, where the sweaters are,” she replied.
He headed for the closet.
“Are you okay?” Joseph whispered, still hovering over her. “Did he hurt you bad?”
“I’ll live,” Laura said. “I hope.”
At that, she heard Victor chuckle, “Yeah, we’ll see. Hey, there’s a full box of bullets here, some nice sweaters, too.” He emerged from the closet and set the box on her dresser. “Now we’re cooking with gas. So—how soon before your husband comes home?”
Laura hesitated.
“Look at her,” he said. “She’s trying to think of the best answer. Should she tell the truth or should she lie? I tell you, I don’t fucking trust her . . .”
Joe straightened up and faced him. “She just told you where the bullets were, and she wasn’t lying about that. I need her . . .” He pulled Victor toward the doorway and whispered something to him.
“My husband’s away on a business trip,” Laura spoke up. “He’s not coming back for another two weeks. But I’m expecting a call from him soon, and if I don’t pick up, he might get worried. Also—you should know, I have a neighbor who’ll be bringing home my youngest child from preschool in about three hours. My other two children are coming home at around four o’clock.”
Both men turned to stare at her. She had their attention now.
“You’re free to take the car. If you tie me up, you’ll have a good three-hour start to wherever you’re going. You could be in Montana or Oregon by the time anyone got to me. The car is parked in the garage. It even has a full tank of gas. The keys are in my purse downstairs.”
“Did you hear that, Vic?” Joe asked.
His friend nodded and hurried out of the bedroom.
Laura listened to him running down the stairs.
Joe turned to her. “We don’t want your car,” he said. “But we need to take it out of the garage so we can park ours in there. The cops are looking for that car. I know it’s not likely, but someone might spot it from the road. We can’t take any chances.”
Holding the washcloth to her mouth, Laura studied him. She wondered why he was telling her all this. It sounded as if he and his friend planned to stay for a while. It was too frightening to imagine what they might want. The thought of them being anywhere near her children made her physically ill.
She heard the front door slam. Then there was the sound of a car starting up.
Joe reached down toward her, and she automatically recoiled.
“I was just trying to help you up,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m fine here—for now,” she said.
Joe sighed. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Yes, I recognize both of you,” she said steadily. “I saw both you and your friend on the news. I know the police are looking for you. Listen, I—I’m willing to go to my bank and withdraw money to help you get away . . .”
Standing over her, Joe frowned. He didn’t seem convinced.
Laura wondered what she’d have to say to persuade them to leave before the kids came home. “You—you can take me with you,” she said in a shaky voice. “I’d be a help to you . . .”
She figured even if they ended up killing her and dumping her body somewhere, at least her children would be safe.
“You’re going to help us,” he said, “but not like that.”
“What do you mean?” she asked warily.
“I’ll explain later,” he answered. “Right now, my friend and I are pretty hungry . . .”
She stared at him.
“We’ve been driving around for hours,” he went on. “Since last night, we’ve been getting by on some old peanuts and snack chips Vic had in his backpack. We could really use a decent breakfast.”
“You want me to—fix you breakfast?” she asked.
“Would you mind?” He held out his hand to her again.
But Laura didn’t take it. She gazed at him for another moment and then stood up on her own.
* * *
Joe’s friend, Vic, came swaggering in by the kitchen door with his backpack.
For Laura, it was just one more ominous indication that the two men intended to stay a while. She stood at the counter with a pair of scissors, cutting open a new package of bacon for their breakfast.
Before she knew what was happening, Vic threw aside the backpack and charged toward her. “Goddamn it!” he bellowed, grabbing her wrists and shaking the scissors out of her hand. They fell to the floor, one blade just missing her foot. He pushed her aside and turned to his partner. “What the hell is wrong with you, letting her handle scissors? You don’t even have your gun out! You’re barely watching her! Use your head, stupid!”
Stunned, Laura caught her breath and backed against the counter. She watched him stomp over toward the sink, open the lower cabinet door, and yank out the plastic garbage pail. Refuse spilled onto the floor as he tugged the nearly full trash bag out of the container. He tossed it aside, scattering more debris onto the floor. Without a word, Vic quickly collected the cutlery from the butcher-block knife holder on the counter. He pitched the knives into the pail. Laura winced at the sound of them clinking and clanking inside the receptacle.
But Vic didn’t stop there. He went through the drawers—pulling some of them all the way out and dumping them onto the floor with a loud crash. He hurled more knives and utensils into the garbage receptacle—the pizza cutter, a potato peeler, cheese knives, serving forks, anything with a sharp edge or sharp end. By the time he was done, Vic seemed out of breath. He hauled the pail toward the kitchen door. “Watch her!” he barked to his friend, and then he headed outside.
Laura turned and glanced out the window over the sink. She saw Vic lug the pail to the garage’s side door. He opened it and ducked inside.
Turning again, she gazed down at the horrible mess he’d left on her kitchen floor.
“I’m really sorry,” Joe whispered.
She numbly gazed at him. Was he actually apologizing for his friend trashing her kitchen? Right now, that was the least of her worries. Yet Joe seemed sincere.
At the same time, he still had the gun in his hand, and it was pointed at her.
* * *
Laura started picking up things from the floor, shaking off the coffee grounds and crumbs, and then setting them on the counter. Garbage was strewn all over the place. The utensils would need to be cleaned in the dishwasher or scrubbed in the sink.
Joe was supposed to be guarding her, but he’d become distracted by a young Elizabeth Taylor in Raintree County. With the gun still in his hand, he stood in the middle of the family room staring at the TV.
But he snapped to attention when Vic came through the kitchen door again.
“What are you watching that for?” Vic barked. “Turn to the news, CNN or whatever.”
At the sink, Laura glanced over her shoulder at Joe. He grabbed the TV remote and started surfing through the channels.
Vic strutted into the kitchen. “Where the hell’s our breakfast?”
“You want me to cook for you with utensils that have been on the floor—along with about two days’ worth of garbage?” She rinsed off the spatula.
“So what’s stopping you from making the coffee?”
Laura dried her hands and pulled the package
of ground Starbucks beans out of the cupboard.
“What’s this?” Vic asked. From the counter he’d picked up a six-inch, yellow plastic cylinder with an orange cap.
“It’s an EpiPen,” Laura replied, moving to the Mr. Coffee machine on the counter. Four of the EpiPens had spilled from a drawer that Vic had yanked out of the cabinet. “It’s medicine for my older son,” she explained. “He has allergies. Could you please put that down?”
But Vic was reading the directions on the side of the tube. “What’s he allergic to?”
“Nuts—and peanut oil,” she said. “We have to be very careful about what he eats.” Laura didn’t want to tell him any more. Why let him know about her family’s vulnerabilities? He seemed fascinated by the syringe.
She got the coffee started. “If you want bacon with your breakfast, you’ll have to go back to the garage and get a knife or scissors to open the package.”
He finally put down the EpiPen and pulled something from his pants pocket. Laura didn’t quite get a look at it, but then, Vic flicked his wrist and a knife blade sprung out of the handle.
Laura saw the switchblade and gasped. She immediately thought of Mr. Clapp.
Dazed, she watched Vic, in one quick motion, slit open the package of bacon with his switchblade. He pushed the blade back into its handle, and then tucked the weapon into his pocket again.
Kicking aside garbage and several items on the floor, he made his way to the refrigerator. “Hey, kiddo, how do you like your eggs?” he called to his friend.
“We’re having eggs?” Joe asked. He’d put his gun away and now sat on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “Could I have them scrambled, please? But not too runny, okay? I don’t like them runny. Thank you!”
He sounded like a kid, giving his friend’s mom a breakfast order after spending the night at their house.
Vic handed her the carton of eggs. “You heard him. And I want mine fried.”
Laura wordlessly took the carton of eggs from him and set it on the counter. She went back to frying up the bacon. The smell of the sizzling meat began to fill the kitchen.
Vic pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and guzzled from it. He raised the carton and called to his friend, “Hey, how about some OJ?”
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