by Alison Stone
Since her grandmother had been Amish and she meant to recreate an Amish-like experience for the tourists, there was no light switch close by. Instead she’d have to take the time to turn the knob on the kerosene lamps mounted on the walls in the hallway.
An unease threaded its way up her spine as she tiptoed down the hallway toward the stairs. She grabbed her cell phone out from under her arm and used the back of her hand to feel along the wall in the dark. The other hand was wrapped firmly around the handle of her driver.
Dear Lord, please keep me safe.
Heather navigated the stairs, each one creaking under her weight. Breathing heavily, she made her way to the new addition off the kitchen, where she hoped to serve meals to large groups of tourists staying in her home.
The plastic sheets the Amish workmen had hung over the opening for the window flapped in the wind. The snapping sound—along with the rumble of thunder in the distance—was disconcerting in the dark of night.
For a long moment, Heather stared at the rippling plastic, trying to decide if she should barricade herself in the bathroom and call 9-1-1 because someone had slipped in through the opening or if perhaps the wind had somehow torn the plastic sheeting from its staples.
With her back flat against the wall, she didn’t let go of the golf club. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows. A crack of lightning illuminated the new breakfast nook. A metal mop and broom had been upended and had come to rest in the corner.
A shaky groan of relief ripped from her throat as the need to both laugh and cry at the same time overwhelmed her. The metal bucket must have made the crashing sound. Not an intruder. She set the golf club against the wall, then examined the plastic sheet more closely. She couldn’t leave it like that or the rain would warp the plywood that formed the base of the new hardwood floors that were scheduled to go in soon.
She glanced at the time on her cell phone. The workmen wouldn’t be there till morning. And she couldn’t very well call her Amish handyman this late at night. Even though he was allowed to have a cell phone for work purposes, she doubted he kept it on his bedside table as she had. The rules provided limits.
Come on, you can do it, a little voice inside her head nudged her. You want to own a business? You gotta get your hands dirty. Put on your big girl britches.
Rolling her shoulders, she tried to ease out the kinks. She might as well replace the torn plastic and seal the window opening because the adrenaline surging through her veins wasn’t going to allow her to catch a wink of sleep anyway.
She turned on a kerosene lamp in the sitting room, then jogged up the stairs to throw on some clothes. On the way back down the stairs, she could hear the rain pelting the roof.
“Being a business owner is highly overrated,” she muttered.
She grabbed an umbrella from the front hall, then put it back. She’d need two hands to carry the supplies from the shed in the back corner of the yard. She had noticed her Amish handyman, Sloppy Sam, putting them away this afternoon. The Amish people’s tendency to use nicknames to distinguish between the same names was both creative and charming. She doubted she would have had a nickname because her name wasn’t all that common among the Amish. Her mother’s love for flowers influenced the names of her daughters: Heather, Lily and Rose. But the girls never had to worry about their unique names while living in Quail Hollow because they were ripped away from their extended family as little girls.
Focusing on the task at hand, Heather plucked her rain slicker from a hook by the door and stuffed her arms into the cold sleeves. She psyched herself up to run across the wet yard, get the stuff she needed from the shed and then return to the house. It would take no time. No time at all.
She laughed at herself.
She really was a chicken.
But she figured she came about it honestly, after being terrorized by her husband for years.
Brian Fox was in jail, she reminded herself.
And she was safe in Quail Hollow.
She unlocked the back door, a useless lock considering there was a large hole in the back wall of the house.
She darted back into the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from the junk drawer and felt the weight of it in her hand.
What could happen to her in her own backyard?
* * *
Zach drove past the house with the address his supervisor had given him for Heather Miller, made a U-turn about a mile up, then returned, pulling in alongside an Amish buggy that had been abandoned across the street and partially obscured his truck. Based on his limited interaction with Heather Miller during Fox’s trial, he’d learned that she had gone off the grid for ten years, fearful for her life. But a year ago she resurfaced after Fox’s arrest for murdering Zach’s sister. Heather’s testimony had been instrumental in putting him away for a long time.
For that, Zach was grateful.
Then, nine months ago, according to his boss, this real estate transaction in Quail Hollow popped up with her name on it. Poor woman probably let her guard down after Fox was arrested, figuring she’d be safe.
She should have been safe.
Drawing in a deep breath, he knew he had a job to do. He had to push aside his personal demons. His personal need for revenge. His job was to get Miss Miller into protective custody until Fox was back rotting in jail.
Zach killed the headlights on his truck, then studied the property, wondering why Fox’s first wife had moved to a farm in Quail Hollow. From what he knew about her, she had grown up in Buffalo, New York. Not exactly the country. Maybe this was her way of starting over after Fox’s imprisonment.
The reason why Heather Miller was out here in the middle of nowhere wasn’t important right now. Securing her was.
Fox wasn’t likely to announce himself, and the darkness didn’t help. Zach thought he knew dark. But the blackness in the country during a rainstorm was unlike anything he had experienced. The wipers smearing the rain didn’t help the cause.
He grabbed his cell phone from the middle console of his truck and called his boss. The call took a few extra minutes to connect. “I’m sitting outside Heather Miller’s house. I’m going to check out the property before I try to make contact.”
“Okay. Once you have her secure, report back in. And, Zach...be careful. Local law enforcement reported that Fox may have stolen guns from a home near the correctional facility. There was a break-in shortly after his escape.”
Zach ended the call, then tucked the phone into the interior pocket of his jacket. He climbed out of the truck and closed the door with a quiet snick. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain was still coming down steadily. The temperature had plummeted with the storm, not unusual in September in Western New York.
Maybe that meant Fox was hunkered down somewhere and not stalking his ex-wife.
As long as Fox wasn’t hunkered down here.
Zach crossed the street, giving the house a wide berth, as if it might hold secrets. He noticed a light on in the kitchen that hadn’t been on when he pulled up.
He scanned the landscape. There were a lot of outbuildings for a person to hide in. He was making his way around the back of the house when he heard a rustling at the back door. Sliding his gun from its holster, he rushed toward the door, focusing intently on the sound.
A person—a woman, based on her petite stature—stood on the porch with a flashlight. What’s she doing? Before he had a chance to announce himself, she let out a scream that sent all his senses on high alert. The flashlight fell from her hands and landed with a thud on the porch. The light went dark. She spun around, pushed through the open door, then slammed it shut.
Zach froze in his tracks. He holstered his gun and lifted his hands in a nonthreatening gesture. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than he already had.
“I’m calling the police,” she yelled from inside the door. “Leave now
!”
Zach reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his credentials. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker. We met last year at Brian Fox’s trial. I don’t think my ID will fit under the door. Go to a window. I’ll show you.”
“Go away.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come back during the day. That’s what a normal person would do.”
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t bother you so late at night if it wasn’t important.”
Silence stretched between them. He didn’t hear any movements on the other side of the door, so he assumed she was still standing there debating what to do. After a moment, he heard rustling behind the door that sounded much like a dead bolt sliding out of place. The door opened a crack. A brass chain glinted when he lifted the flashlight she had dropped. A swift kick would have snapped the chain on the door, but he needed her cooperation, not her fear.
Heather squinted and lifted her hand to block the beam of light.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Slip your ID between the crack. Hurry up.” She spoke with an authority he hadn’t anticipated.
Zach passed his ID through the narrow opening between the door and frame. She slammed the door shut. The dead bolt snapped back into place. After a long minute, he heard the slide of the chain and she opened the door.
Heather Miller planted a fist on her hip and a dark shadow crossed her face. “Marshal Walker. This can’t be good.”
“No. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Brian Fox escaped and we fear he’s coming for you.”
TWO
Heather glared at the U.S. Marshal standing on her back porch in the middle of the night, his familiar face reminding her of how far she had come. His mere presence making her feel like everything she had worked so hard to build these past nine months was about to slip away.
No, no, Brian Fox was locked up in Peters Correctional Facility.
“May I come inside?” The deputy U.S. Marshal had a valid request. The small porch provided little protection from the weather. And the wind and rain pelting against the metal roof of the overhang was scraping across her every last nerve.
“Yes, of course.” She would not allow herself to melt into a puddle of panic. She was not the woman she used to be. Despite her best efforts, her gaze drifted to the darkened yard beyond her porch and a chill crept up her spine. “Come in, Deputy U.S. Marshal.” She opened the door wider for him.
“Thanks, and please call me Zach.” He slipped in past her, the rain from his coat dripping on the floor. He turned slowly to face her. In the yellow glow of the kitchen, she noticed the handsome angles of his face. The same intensity in his eyes from when she’d first met him at Brian’s trial was still evident. Her ex-husband had murdered his little sister.
“How did Brian get out? I don’t understand. He’s in a maximum-security prison. You must be mistaken.” Her mouth suddenly went dry and her knees threatened to give out from under her. She sensed she was standing on the edge, feeling like the unstable cliff she had built her new life upon was about to crumble beneath her.
“I understand he had help from the inside.”
“No... How? I don’t understand...” She shook her head slowly. The man who was standing in her kitchen grew blurry.
The marshal took a step toward her. “I know it’s hard to comprehend, but we have reason to believe he’s coming for you.”
The man’s words became jumbled and sounded like they were coming from the other end of a long, narrow empty tunnel. She blinked slowly, feeling as if she was floating above her body. Maybe if she pinched herself, she’d wake up from this nightmare.
Brian escaped. Brian escaped. Brian escaped.
Unable to wrap her mind around that simple concept. No, not a simple concept. A completely impossible concept. How did someone escape from a maximum-security facility? Even with help? She turned and placed the flat of her hand on the cool countertop, trying to ground herself. “Explain what’s going on. Now.” Her fear came out as anger.
“Would you like to sit down?” He pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table, the one she’d sat at earlier planning the future of the bed-and-breakfast. Her future...
It took Heather a moment to hear his words, process their meaning. She looked up at him, trying to keep her lips from trembling. When had he moved to stand so close to her? Her anxiety spiked and she slid closer to the door. Away from him. Toward her escape.
Always have an escape.
That had been her mistake with Brian. She had been swept off her feet as a young girl. Married him. Then when things turned violent, she had no job. No place to run. No escape.
Until not escaping would have meant certain death.
It had for his second wife.
A shudder coursed through her and she wrapped her hands around the edge of the sink, ignoring the man’s offer to sit down. Lifting her gaze to the window, she saw her hollow eyes reflecting back at her.
Was Brian out there watching her?
She spun around and squared off with the U.S. Marshal who had come to share this horrible news.
“What happens now? I’m renovating this bed-and-breakfast. I have plans...”
She looked up and tuned into the narrow wood shelf lining the top of her grandmother’s plain pine cabinets. Her grandmother had a collection of hand-cut wood blocks that Heather recognized as buildings located in the center of Quail Hollow. She wondered if the Amish would have allowed such frivolous decorations, but Heather assumed her grandmother may have bent a few of the rules after losing so much. What punishment could the Amish elders have dished out to her mammy for a few wooden decorations when she had already suffered the worst fate: her daughter had been murdered and her son-in-law left Quail Hollow with her three young granddaughters never to return?
What would her mammy think if she knew her granddaughter had almost suffered the same fate as her daughter? However, her mother had died at the hands of a stranger. Heather had been threatened by the man she had once loved. Were some families prone to violence?
Heather shook her head at the ridiculousness of that thought. Her mind had a tendency to race when she was stressed. To think the most random thoughts.
Focus.
Heather grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with tap water. Then she turned to face the man in her kitchen. “Why do you think he’s coming for me?”
But she knew, didn’t she?
Her hand began to shake and she set the glass down. “I haven’t had contact with him since...the trial.” That was when she had finally faced the man who had abused her for years. When she finally stood up to him.
An emotion she couldn’t name flitted in the depths of his eyes. “We have reason to believe he’s obsessed with you and may be headed your way.”
Thick emotion clogged her throat. “How is that possible?” But deep down she knew. Brian Fox was an egotistical psychopath and she had escaped his clutches. He’d also vowed that he would kill her if she ever left him. Her ex-husband didn’t like to fail. Now he was taking his one shot at freedom to right his one failure.
Her.
* * *
Heather’s entire body shook. The yellow light in the kitchen of the old farmhouse made her pallor more pronounced. She pulled out the chair and slumped into it, placing her elbows on the table and digging her fingers into her hair.
“Do you have someplace you can go?” Zach hovered over her, then realized he might get a better response if he sat down across from her. Less threatening.
After a moment, she glanced up. A silent tear slid down her cheek. Law enforcement officers learned to separate their feelings from the job, but this case was too personal not to feel heartache for this woman.
“No, I don’t have someplace to go. I spent every dime I had on renovations. I moved out of my apartment today. Today! I
t’s like he knew how to mess with me.” She held up her palms, disbelief threading her tone. “I’m opening a bed-and-breakfast. I’ve decided to name it Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast. Simple, but appropriate. Renovations are nearing completion. I’ve worked so hard.” Her tone had a weary quality, probably a mix of her frustration with the contractors and the new bomb he had dropped on her: her violent ex-husband was tracking his way across Western New York to continue his reign of terror.
“Could you delay the opening? Just until Fox is back in custody?”
“Maybe he won’t find me. It’s not like I’m on social media or anything advertising where I live.” The hope in her voice was like a knife twisting in his heart. How could one man cause so much havoc?
“We were able to track you down through a real estate transaction. Easily. He could do the same.” Zach resisted the urge to reach out and cover her hand. Comfort her. But it wasn’t his place. He hardly knew Heather. He only knew what she had done for his family. She stepped up at his sister’s murder trial when it counted. Now he had to keep her safe.
Heather straightened and pounded a fist on the table. “That jerk took my twenties from me. I refuse to let him take any more.”
Anger pulsed through his veins. “Fox could take your life.”
Heather jerked her head back as if she had been slapped, but instead of crumbling, she seemed to grow angrier. She pushed back her chair. It slammed into the wall behind her, then crashed to the floor. She stepped over it and paced the small space. Then she turned to face him, jabbing her index finger in his direction. “Don’t you think I know that? I left him in the middle of the night with only a few dollars and the clothes on my back. I made sure I stayed off the grid. I lost touch with my family. I moved every few months when I thought he might be closing in. I don’t know when he stopped looking for me, but I know when I stopped fearing him. When he went to prison for murdering—” her voice faltered “—for killing your sister.” She pressed her palms together and touched her lips with the tips of her fingers. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t pray for Jill. And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God for sparing my life.”