by LENA DIAZ,
The cat screeched and hissed, claws skidding over the wide wooden planks as he slid in the direction of Sara and the masked lunatic.
The footfalls stopped.
Emma barreled into her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. Her heart hammered and her chest ached. She climbed through the clothes racks, over boxes and blankets and shoes, then curled herself around her son and shushed him out of a fast-approaching fit.
Several wild heartbeats later, the footfalls retreated back toward her sister, who she hoped had had the good sense to run.
“Who did you tell?” the man’s voice came again, impossibly angrier.
Emma’s heart fell. Sara hadn’t run.
“Ma’am?” the voice asked through the phone. “Miss Hart? Caller ID shows this as the Hart residence?”
What was happening? Why was it happening?
“Miss Hart,” the woman persisted.
“Yes,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. She cringed with each terrorizing demand of the intruder in the next room. Who did you tell?
Sara screamed.
Her gut-wrenching wail ripped through the rafters, the drywall and Emma’s soul. “Someone is hurting my sister,” she whispered. “Please, hurry.”
Emma’s gaze darted through the dark space. If only she hadn’t moved her daddy’s rifles into a gun safe after Henry was born. If only Henry was sleeping in his crib, and she could trust him not to scream. If only she could help Sara.
A deafening crack stopped her ragged thoughts. The sound of skin on skin. A brain-jarring slap. Or jaw-breaking punch. Every sound was amplified in the impossibly still home. Emma heard the muted thud of a collapsing body.
Then no more screaming. No more demanding growls. Just silence.
Outside, the rumble of an engine drew hope to Emma’s heart. The psychopath was leaving. Whatever condition Sara was in, at least she hadn’t been shot, and the police were on the way. Sara would be okay, and she would tell them everything so the son of a gun who did this to her would pay.
Emma crept from her hiding spot and raced to her bedroom window, confirming the empty driveway before racing back down the hallway, heart in her throat and preparing to provide triage while they awaited the first responders.
On a deep intake of air, she shored her nerve at the end of the hallway, tucked Henry tight to her chest and dared a peek into her living room.
But all that remained of her sister was a thick smear of blood on the polished wooden floor.
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Anne Lindsey
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ISBN: 9781488067174
Conflicting Evidence
Copyright © 2020 by Lena Diaz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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