Reclaim My Life

by Cheryl Norman

“It’s pretty far-fetched.”

  “Hey, it’s just us three. Dad’s my unpaid consultant on these homicide cases.” He gave her a wink that his dad couldn’t see. “You can tell us your theory.”

  She hadn’t sorted all her suspicions in her own mind yet, but apparently Wilson wanted her to play detective with Harold. She couldn’t help but appreciate Wilson’s sensitivity toward his father. He treated him as an adult, not a stroke victim, preserving the older man’s pride whenever possible.

  “I’m thinking aloud here, so bear with me. Suppose Ian married Sunny for her big trust fund.”

  “Does she have a big trust fund?”

  “She says she does, but she never told Ian about it. He found out by snooping through her computer.” Ian had helped Elizabeth set up her computer connection, too. Could he have installed spyware? Would he have made the connection with MustangSallysGarage.com?

  “Go on.”

  She returned her attention to speculating about Ian and Sunny. “He knows that in the state of Florida if she dies without a will, he inherits everything. So to kill her, he has to divert suspicion by creating a serial killer scenario. He kills a couple of her friends before doing away with her—”

  “You believe he’s capable of murdering three women?” Wilson asked.

  “No, I don’t. But I have a history of being a poor judge of character.” Starting with her ex-fiancé, not that she’d go into that humiliation with Wilson and Harold.

  “What prompted your suspicions of him?”

  “Just a few hours ago, Sunny said to me, ‘If anything happens to me, tell that sheriff friend of yours to check out Ian.’“

  Harold looked from her to Wilson. “Doesn’t sound so far-fetched to me, son. It would explain why you have no other suspects except for—”

  “Da-ad.” Wilson’s warning tone stopped whatever Harold was about to say.

  “All I’m saying is she has a good theory.” In an aside to her, he added, “I watch true crime shows on TV.”

  Elizabeth didn’t. She seemed to be living a true crime episode.

  “As soon as Jamie gets here, I’m going to have her do some checking on both Ian and Sunny Davis. I need Sam’s file on Sunny for a starting point.”

  “Is it too early to eat? I’m hungry.” Harold reached for his wheelchair wheel with one hand.

  “Let me, Dad. Sam’s carpet isn’t wheel-friendly.” Wilson pushed Harold into the kitchen. “Elizabeth, is it too early for you?”

  A vortex of acid besieged her stomach. She’d be lucky to push a spoonful of stew between her lips. Surely she could fake it for Harold’s sake, though. Confined to a wheelchair, he had enough to deal with. At least Nina, her wheelchair-bound sister, had the use of both arms and could do most things for herself.

  Elizabeth counted her blessings and put on a brave face. “You know me. It’s never too early to eat.”

  She followed the men into the kitchen, a cozy galley decorated in 1970s gold and avocado. A wide opening in the rear of the room led to a small dining area, with a table and chairs nestled in a bay window. Before she had the opportunity to admire the view of the back courtyard, Wilson closed all the mini blinds. He then flipped a switch, flooding the room with light.

  “Sam will be here in a few minutes, Dad. Don’t you want to wait for him?”

  “By the time we set the table, he’ll be here. He likes to eat promptly at five.”

  “Don’t I know it!” Wilson grimaced. “Whenever we meet for dinner, he thinks I should be waiting for him at five, no matter what’s going on in the world of criminal justice.”

  Elizabeth saw little left to do in the dining nook. Hazel had the solid cherry table set up for two and quilted green placemats for four. She grabbed two bowls Wilson handed her.

  “Where’s the flatware?”

  Wilson lifted the lid off the Crock-Pot, filling the breakfast room with a tantalizing aroma. “Try the drawer beneath the microwave oven.”

  The front door squeaked open and Wilson’s hand moved to his holster, a grim reminder that she was in danger. They exchanged a look. Her presence put his family at risk. “I shouldn’t be here, Wilson.”

  He ignored that, calling out, “Sam?”

  His brother walked through the door leading from the living room. In his hand was a blue folder. “Something smells delicious.”

  “You’re just in time for dinner.”

  Dean Drake handed Wilson the folder. “Has the beast been walked lately?”

  Harold answered, “Not since lunch. You volunteering?”

  “Yeah, Sam,” Wilson said. “Walk Sophie while I dish up the stew.”

  “If I must.” Wilson’s brother hooked up the leash and led Sophie to the front door.

  Elizabeth suppressed the urge to offer walking the dog. She couldn’t be seen outside. “Has she had her vitamin K1 today?”

  “Not yet. You can give it to her before we leave.”

  Harold spoke, his gruffness failing to hide his affection toward Sophie. “You leaving her here?”

  “If Sam doesn’t mind. It’d be better for her.”

  And for Harold. Elizabeth hid a smile. Harold was a tough guy with a marshmallow center—and like father, like son.

  Harold rolled his chair to the end of the table. Wilson pointed to the only chair not in the direct view of the breakfast nook window and gave her a pointed look. “You sit here.”

  His brother returned with the dog and the young deputy she remembered seeing at the diner. “Wilson, you have company.” It may have been Elizabeth’s imagination, but Dean Drake’s tone seemed tolerant at best, as if he’d rather not have the likes of law enforcement darken his doorstep.

  If Wilson noticed, he didn’t react. He introduced her to them as “Deputy Jamie Peterson,” then asked her to join them for a bowl of beef stew.

  “No, thanks. I need to get to work. Dean Drake, may we use your computer for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly. It’s in my office.”

  Wilson excused himself from the table, grabbing the blue folder containing Sunny Davis’s employment file as he stood. He then took Deputy Peterson into another room of the house, presumably Dean Drake’s office, leaving Elizabeth to make small talk with his father and brother. As soon as she loaded the dishwasher, though, she intended to call Ian. Where was Sunny? If Ian wouldn’t file a missing person’s report with the police, she would. She wouldn’t reveal that the county sheriff was already on the case. No matter what Ian’s intentions toward Sunny were, Elizabeth vowed to do everything in her power to find her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At Drake Oaks, Wil stopped long enough to close the gate and then parked the Jeep out of sight, back behind his cabin on the Suwannee. He’d had Elizabeth duck low in the seat until they’d cleared the busy streets of town. He wanted no one to see her with him or to guess where she’d be hiding. The darkening sky and floating pieces of soot drew his gaze toward the western horizon.

  He pointed toward the distant plume of smoke. “I don’t know which will get us first—the fire or the hurricane.”

  Elizabeth climbed out of the Jeep, stretching her back and arms. “Is this where we’re staying?”

  “Afraid not. We’re going to dig in at Dad’s house.” He opened the back of the Jeep where they’d stashed the food and water.

  Reaching inside, she grabbed her duffel bag and her purse. “Is this your place?”

  “Home sweet home.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Thanks. You can leave that here,” he said, indicating her duffel bag. “I just need to grab my rifles and some supplies. Then we’ll pull around to the main house.”

  “Will you show it to me?”

  “What? The cabin? Sure. Come inside.” He motioned her toward the screened door, which he held open for her. “It’s not that big. Half of it is porch.”

  “I love screened porches. All you need is a swing and a couple of rocking chairs.”

  “I have those put inside
. At the first sign of a hurricane, we bring in grills, chairs, and anything else that’s loose.” He frowned. “Which is why everything’s a mess right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She stepped into the cabin and paused inside his kitchen. Although she didn’t say a word, her dismay showed in her expression.

  He examined his cabin through her eyes, regretting the crowded living area filled with outdoor furniture, the unwashed cups and plates in the sink, and the coating of dust on counters and cabinets. His barbells from his last workout cluttered the middle of the living room floor. Elizabeth’s house never had a magazine or book out of place or a speck of dust on any surface. She alphabetized her canned goods, for crying out loud. She’d see his home as a rat’s nest, or worse.

  “I would tell you it’s normally clean and tidy here, but I’d be stretching the truth.”

  She grinned. “Is it safe to use your bathroom?”

  He laughed at that. “Reasonably. I think I hung up the towel after my shower. If you see clothes scattered on the floor, just kick them aside and make a path.”

  “You can’t scare me.”

  He flicked on the overhead track lights and pointed her toward his bathroom. “Darlin’, I hope I’m exaggerating.” Had he left dirty laundry on the floor? Too late to worry about it now.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  While Elizabeth used the facilities, Wil dug out his rifles and ammo from the spare bedroom closet. The cabin had two small bedrooms, one bath, and the combination living/dining/kitchen area the builder had called a great room. A seldom-used corner fireplace, beamed ceiling, and many windows created a spacious feel to a compact space. Though small, the cabin derived its true charm from its three-sided, wraparound screened porch.

  He’d fantasized bringing her here for a romantic getaway, even living here as husband and wife. She’d have his cabin spotless and his cabinets organized in no time, probably handing him a project list as long as his arm. They’d enjoy sunsets side by side on the porch swing, sipping hot cocoa on a winter’s night. Or sit quietly and sip morning coffee on a spring morning, watching deer grazing along the river. Now circumstances crushed those dreams. He’d be better off forgetting what might have been. He needed to concentrate on keeping her safe until Special Agent Cory arrived. After that … well, he couldn’t stay focused if he thought of life beyond her departure.

  He hoped the cabin could bear the brunt of a hurricane. Located on a small bluff overlooking the river, it was vulnerable to flooding in the aftermath. Considering this year’s drought, it’d take a lot of rain to fill the Suwannee. Flooding was less a concern than wind damage, but he’d run out of time to plywood up the windows. Unlike Elizabeth’s house and his dad’s, the cabin had no shutters to close over the glass.

  Elizabeth returned to the kitchen. “What can I carry? Anything but guns.”

  He handed her four boxes of ammo, then turned off the lights. Clicking on his flashlight, he grabbed both rifles. “Let’s go.”

  Stowing their cargo in the rear of the Jeep, they fought the wind with every step. Inside the Jeep, Elizabeth gave him a frown. “I think the wind’s worse.”

  “At least it’s blowing from the east. Otherwise, we’d be running from the fire.” He didn’t want to think of the residents and creatures west of the fire. The best-case scenario called for hundreds of charred acres in Osceola National Forest. “If we have to have a hurricane, let’s hope this one hurries and dumps a lot of rain.”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Elizabeth shudder. “How bad is a hurricane?”

  “It depends on many factors. Which side of the eye we’re on, the speed it hits at, how organized a system it is. Since we haven’t been given an evacuation order, we’re not in the direct path. But we have to be prepared for the worst.”

  “Which is?”

  He didn’t want her scared of the hurricane. She had enough to frighten her. “Let’s unload and get inside. Then we’ll see what we can pick up from The Weather Channel. The nice thing about hurricanes is they give you lots of warning.”

  He hoped his dad’s satellite dish hadn’t lost its signal yet.

  Wilson closed the colonial shutters over all the downstairs windows. In the den the television’s signal came and went, but Elizabeth stayed with The Weather Channel. She jotted down everything the hurricane expert said so she could report it to Wilson while he was upstairs staking out places to watch for intruders. If he was being overly cautious, she didn’t mind a bit. Between the weather and the contract killer, she welcomed vigilance.

  By the time he clopped down the stairs, she had a complete weather update prepared. “It’s changed direction a bit.”

  “What’s the path?”

  “It shouldn’t hit Florida at all. They predict landfall around Brunswick—”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, darlin’, but Brunswick’s two hours from here. If the eye of the storm goes over Brunswick, we’re still in trouble.”

  “Let me finish. The storm is moving a lot faster than expected, which means it hasn’t strengthened as much as it might have. They’re calling it a category two.”

  He let out a breath. “That’s a lot better than a category four. My cabin might survive.”

  “What about this house?”

  “We may have some roof damage, but this house is built to last. The original structure is cypress, although the additions are pine. A few of the outbuildings could suffer, like the carport.”

  “Shouldn’t you move the Jeep?”

  “Where? If the carport holds, it’s some protection from trees and debris.” He headed toward the front door with a heavy length of chains. “I’m going out to secure the gates.”

  “I thought you did that when we drove in.”

  “That chain’s no match for seventy-mile-an-hour wind. Also, double chains will slow any unwelcome visitors.”

  “May I watch from the porch?” With the shutters closed, she couldn’t see outside. “I have this irrational need to keep an eye on you.”

  He smiled at that. “Sure. Just keep to the shadows.”

  Still gripping her notepad and pen, she followed him out to the screened porch. She stood in the recess of the door and watched him jog down the steps and down the dirt road, the chains jingling in his hands. The entrance to Drake Oaks was about a quarter mile from the house. He reached the large metal gates and tested the single chain lock. Wrapping the heavier metal links between the two, he lashed them together to rattle and buck in the wind.

  He raced back to the screened porch, panting and sweating. When he stepped inside the screen door, the rain began. “Good timing. I just hope the chains hold.”

  Large drops at first, so intermittent she could count them, exploded into a loud torrent made noisier by the house’s metal roof. She inhaled the odor of wet dust mixed with wet burnt wood. After three months without so much as a sprinkle, the earth seemed to give a huge sigh.

  “Oh my. Isn’t this wonderful!”

  He stood beside her for a moment, gazing at the wall of water. “It sure is, darlin’.”

  “I wish we could sit out here and enjoy—”

  “It’s blowing in. We’ll get drenched.” He opened the door and nudged her inside. “Besides, I have to keep you out of sight.”

  “I know. I promise to be a cooperative charge. It’s kept me alive so far.”

  He locked the door and bolted it. “I’ve never known anyone who did so thorough a job of sticking to the rules of witness relocation. You’re a smart and brave lady.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at the notepad she gripped. “Staying alive is a huge motivator.”

  “Yeah.” His expression betrayed nothing of his feelings, although she imagined a flicker of concern in his eyes.

  She followed him down the hall past the staircase. “What do we do the rest of the night?”

  He flashed a sexy grin filled with empty promises. They both knew there’d be no letting down their guard for acts of pleasur
e. “First, we organize our flashlights and supplies in case we lose power. Then we wait it out.”

  “This is my first hurricane, so forgive me if I go hysterical.”

  Stepping close, he gifted her with a warm smile and the touch of his finger along her cheek. “The hurricane is the lesser of two evils. As long as the weather poses a threat, it’ll keep our hit man away.”

  “Yes, the hit man is definitely more evil than Mother Nature.” First, the killer had to find her. For the moment, she felt safe in Wilson’s care. No one knew where they were, and he’d gone to extremes to hide their presence. After the hurricane passed, she’d face the other storms in her life. “Okay, let’s sort the supplies.”

  She followed him to the kitchen, where they’d stacked the gallon jugs of drinking water, flashlights, batteries, and canned goods. She gave a wide berth to the guns with their boxes of ammunition. Organizing and planning occupied her time, although it did little to distract her from the pounding of rain or the scraping of tree limbs against the roof.

  After they’d checked the flashlights and set out the water jugs, Wilson called a Coke break. They carried their soft drinks to the den, where he sat cross-legged on the floor and groaned. “I didn’t realize I was so out of shape until I ran from the gate.”

  She collapsed on the small braided rug in front of the television. “I’m in terrible shape. I used to ride horses, jog, Jazzercise—”

  “What’s Jazzercise?”

  “Just an exercise class that’s like dancing.”

  “That’s right. You love to dance.”

  “Yeah.” He’d remembered. She took a sip of her Coke and let her mind wander to her former life. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t a big eater. Gluttony is an acquired art for me.”

  He shook his head. “Darlin’, you’re no glutton. And you aren’t fat. It’s a pleasure to eat with a woman who doesn’t look at what’s on her fork and recite fat grams and carbs.”

  “I agree. Health nuts are a bore.”

  He scowled and took another drink of his soda. “I dated this woman in Jacksonville a couple years back. All she talked about was the G.I. Diet. I figure if she’s eating like a GI, that’s not bad, right? I mean, Army guys eat healthy portions. Dumb hick me didn’t realize that G.I. stood for something called the glycemic index—”