Which meant . . .
Maggie pulled out the envelope’s flap. There was a folded piece of paper inside. She tipped it out.
Lightning flickered again, thunder rolling as she opened it.
In red ink, three uppercase words were written across the paper, underlined several times:
LEAVE ME ALONE
Maggie recoiled as each word seemed to reach up off the page and punch her on the nose, so hard that tears broke out in the corners of her eyes.
Leave me alone.
She’d only ever heard Rita say those words once, in person, to her face, on a late summer’s evening a few weeks before the fatal fire, and they’d never left Maggie since.
Leave me alone.
The last words Rita had ever spoken to her.
And their power both then and now was utterly crushing.
Something banged somewhere in the house.
Maggie looked around to the open bedroom door, holding her breath and listening. She could hear the storm raging outside, rain drumming against the windows and the roof.
Then she heard a man’s voice cussing out loud. And adrenaline burst through her system. She stuffed the note back in the envelope, and the envelope back in the notebook. And a fraction of a second later, her police training kicked in. She doused the flashlight and leaped to her feet, hovering in the doorway to listen, to assess the situation, and to weigh her options.
She could hear movement coming from the direction of the kitchenette, what sounded like a cupboard door banging shut, a man’s voice muttering words she couldn’t quite make out. She figured someone must have noticed the heavy police activity in the daytime, assuming that tonight the house would be empty and easy pickings.
Maggie reached for her Glock, only to realize that she’d left it locked in the trunk of her car, in the gun safe. To make matters worse, her cell phone was in her jacket pocket at the breakfast bar.
Right where the intruder was.
She asked herself, did she want to tackle a burglar in the dark and in an unfamiliar setting?
But she couldn’t just stand here while somebody ransacked the house.
Maggie smoothed her damp hair back from her face.
The intruder didn’t know she was here, least of all that she was unarmed. Announcing her presence might prove deterrent enough, give her time to call for back up. Often, the declaration that a police officer was on the premises was sufficient to subdue a trespasser, or to send him fleeing.
The glow of a flashlight sent long shadows scurrying across the end of the hallway ahead of her.
Silently, Maggie moved toward it.
More bangs and cussing coming from the kitchenette.
It sounded like cupboards were being opened and their contents rummaged through.
She paused where the hallway joined the living room, peeping around the edge of the doorframe as lightning flashed outside.
A man was silhouetted against the bright kitchen window.
She saw him freeze in the sudden light, as though he had seen her peeping.
“Police!” Maggie shouted. “Get down on your knees! Hands above your head!”
Thunder boomed, shaking the wooden walls.
It seemed to act like a starting pistol.
The intruder took flight, clattering through the kitchenette toward the back door.
Maggie made her choice and ran after him.
Spears of steel rain fell vertically from the black sky, striking the patio and bouncing as high as her head, louder than a hundred crashing cymbals.
Maggie paused to grab her bearings, rain pouring, drenching her. Everywhere she looked, reduced visibility. She had no idea which way the intruder had fled.
Thunder and lightning erupted simultaneously.
Maggie spotted him clambering over the side fence. She hollered at him to desist, but he disappeared into the neighboring yard without so much as a glance in her direction.
With her clothes clinging to her skin, she splashed her way across the yard. She leaped at the fence. The white-painted wood wasn’t white-painted wood at all. It was vinyl. And it was slippery. Her first attempt at vaulting it was met with her slithering down into a heap on the gravel, knees bruising. She tried again, hooking her fingers over the apex and hauling herself up, feet scrabbling for purchase, the fence panel wobbling precariously as she rolled over the top and landed heavily in a muddy puddle on the other side.
Lightning lit the broiling clouds.
The intruder was a good thirty yards away already, headed toward the back of the neighbor’s property, his heels kicking up rainwater.
Unlike in Cullen’s yard, there was no fence here to denote the boundary, just mowed lawn stretching away into the adjoining yards. Maggie took up the chase again, splashing across the grass as rain needled her face.
She saw the intruder reach the street and begin to cross it on a long diagonal, running like the devil was snapping at his heels. Through the driving rain, she could just make out that he had on a dark hoodie with the hood up, dark-colored pants, and sneakers with red soles.
Maggie hit the harder asphalt, increasing her pace on the firmer surface.
Twenty yards and closing.
Although it was completely doable, Maggie had never considered herself a marathoner. She had the stamina for it, and she could tune out everything to focus on the long game, but the thought of running for hours had never appealed to her. There were far more productive things she could do with the time, she thought, other than grinding down her knee cartilage.
Running down fleeing wrongdoers, on the other hand, came with a certain adrenaline-fed rush. An immediacy. And already she could feel the heat pluming inside her, fueling her sprint.
The rest was a matter of attrition.
Stick at it long enough, and she was confident she could wear him down, grab him while he fought for breath, powerless and unable to resist arrest.
Maggie tucked her elbows in and dipped her head, following his long diagonal route across the street.
Ten yards and closing.
She saw the intruder veer suddenly into a front yard and disappear into the deep shadow at the side of the house. She cut across the lawn a second or two later, running at full speed and almost losing it on the slick grass.
A deafening thunder volley broke above her. And as brilliant lightning flickered, she saw him darting around the back of the house.
Five yards and closing.
Any second now and she’d be close enough to tackle him from behind. She was trained to apprehend suspects, knowing what pressure to apply where, which soft spots incapacitated, which nerve junction to plant her knee into.
The thought spurred her on.
What she hadn’t bargained for was what happened next.
As Maggie rounded the corner of the house, something like a baseball bat struck her squarely on the chest. The impact stopped her in her tracks, scooting her feet out from under her and sending her crashing to the ground. She hit the grass hard, spread eagled on her back, the air knocked from her lungs, momentarily stunned.
The clouds lit up again, thunder detonating across the sky. And in the shuddering light she saw the intruder looming over her, his hooded silhouette as black as space.
She blinked as rainwater drilled at her face. “Police,” she managed to gasp. But it didn’t make a difference.
He kicked her in her side.
Pain burned through her ribs.
Instinctively, she drew up her knees, curling into a ball, trying to protect her head as another kick landed. Waves of agonizing fire sweeping through her.
Then her training took over.
As the foot swung again, she caught the heel in her fingers. In the same instant, she twisted, deflecting the foot aside and using its own momentum to push it away and upward. His balance shifted, forcing his weight onto his other heel. Maggie exploited her advantage, rolling to her knees and forcing the leg even higher. She heard him cry out with surprise, his a
rms barreling as he toppled backward like a felled tree, his foot still in her grasp.
Maggie ignored the pain flaring in her side, scooting to her feet and using both hands to twist the foot sharply to one side. He yelped again, this time with pain. She stomped her own foot on his stomach, silencing him. Then she twisted the whole leg around, forcing him to go with it and roll over onto his belly. Once he was facedown, she released the foot and planted a knee in the small of his back. Again, he howled.
“Police!” she shouted above the din of the rain. She grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm up his back. “You’re under arrest! Do not resist!”
But he did.
Her assailant was strong, stronger than she anticipated.
He used his free arm like a piston. An impressive one-handed push-up that lifted them both up off the ground. Spine snapping straight and bucking her off.
Maggie landed awkwardly on the grass, one leg tucked under itself. And then it was his turn to take advantage. He scrambled on top of her before she could move, his weight pressing her down into the sodden earth.
She cried out as pain tore up her trapped leg.
She tried to defend herself, to dig her fingertips into his eyeballs, or into any soft tissue she could find, but he swatted her hands aside, raising his fist and bringing it down to her face like a hammerhead. Clenched knuckles scuffing her jaw and rattling the teeth in her mouth. Paralyzing pain bursting through her skull. Sparks flying in her vision. Maggie had taken quite a few knocks to the head in her career, but each time it happened it was like the first, the severity of it shocking. She saw him hoist the fist again, readying to deliver the knockout blow.
Is this it? she wondered as rain pelted her face. Is this how her life was destined to end—at the hands of some stranger, here in someone’s backyard, flat on her back in the mud, in the middle of a thunderstorm, unable to put up even the weakest defense?
Lightning flashed, flickering for long brilliant seconds.
And in its cold light she glimpsed a sliver of her assailant’s face for the first time, a hint of a face that she thought she recognized.
“Tyler?” she gasped. “Tyler, is that you?”
The attacker hesitated. Rain cascading over his shoulders. His fist still poised to deliver its killer strike.
Maggie blinked. “Don’t.”
Chapter Eighteen
CLOUDY, WITH SPELLS OF POOR JUDGMENT
Maggie looked up from her phone as the ambulance’s rear doors swung open and a gray-haired man in a windbreaker climbed inside, bringing a swirl of rain and an air of authority in with him.
“Go easy on those pain meds,” he said as he traded places with the attending paramedic. “I need my detective pin sharp and able to answer questions.”
Maggie switched off her phone and rammed the ice pack back under her jaw. “Captain,” she said with a slight nod.
“Detective.”
Captain Wes Corrigan was Maggie’s section commander at Major Case. Now in his late fifties, Corrigan was all about his people, as he liked to refer to those under his command. And like most hands-on leaders, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
“Sir . . . ,” Maggie began, but Corrigan cut her off with a hand slice.
“No apologies necessary, Detective,” he said. “When I hear an officer is down and it’s one of my people, I don’t hesitate to run into the maw of hell if need be, even at this ungodly hour.”
Bold words. But coming from Corrigan, it was a standard-issue statement, and Maggie suspected it came from a point of procedure rather than a place of empathy. Although he was trying to appear concerned for her welfare, she could sense he was irked at being dragged out of his bed at four in the morning.
She couldn’t blame him.
His gray eyes glanced down at her chin. “Other than the obvious welt, what’s the damage?”
She touched a hand to her waist. “Bruised ribs and a slight concussion.” The paramedic had given her something for the pain, then let her breathe oxygen for a few minutes, but she still felt achy, light headed, her muscles cramping every time she inhaled. “Good news is, I’ll live.”
She knew it could have been much worse. They both did.
“I hear a good neighbor called it in,” Corrigan said.
“Kindly souls still exist.”
Storm watching, an elderly woman had been at her bedroom window when the fight had broken out in her yard below. She’d banged a fist against the window and shaken her phone at Maggie’s attacker, bringing the assault to a premature and welcome end.
“She spooked him, just at the right moment,” Maggie said.
“She probably saved your life. You should send her some flowers.”
Maggie tried to smile, but it came out a wince.
“I hear you ID’d the attacker as the Pruitt kid,” Corrigan said.
“Yes, sir.”
Not only had the captain been apprised of her present situation, he’d also familiarized himself with her case, it seemed. No surprise. Even though it had been late when they’d found Lindy’s body in the trunk of Dana’s car, Loomis had called Smits at home, bringing him up to speed, and everyone in Homicide Squad knew that Smits was an information conduit for Corrigan. No one could sneeze without it going up the chain.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Atrocious weather conditions. Everything happening in a blur. You’re sure you got a clean look at your attacker? Eyewitness says he wore a hood. On a scale of one to ten, how confident are you it was him?”
“Eight. Maybe nine.”
She saw conflict stir in Corrigan’s eyes.
“The truth is, sir, I glimpsed a partial at best. But I’m sure it was Tyler.”
And the more she’d thought about it in the aftermath of the attack, the more convinced she was that Tyler was the culprit. Same height and build. Same bigger upper body. And she was sure she’d seen sneakers with red soles lying on the floor of Tyler’s bedroom yesterday morning. On top of all that, her gut was shouting out his name. But gut instinct was inadmissible.
Corrigan brushed raindrops off his collar. “And you made it clear you were police?”
“Twice. It didn’t stop him.”
He shook his head, sprinkling raindrops. “No respect these days.”
A deputy in a rain-spattered poncho appeared in the ambulance doorway. In clipped words he explained to Corrigan that his men’s sweep of the vicinity had proven fruitless; the attacker was long gone. Corrigan thanked him, and as the deputy departed, he swung his gaze back to Maggie.
“It’s my understanding you had this Pruitt kid in custody yesterday.”
Maggie nodded, going dizzy. “For assaulting Lindy Munson.”
“Who you found dead a few hours ago.”
“Yes, sir. I believe it demonstrates Tyler has no qualms when it comes to hitting women. If we bring him in . . .”
“When we bring him in,” he corrected. “Your BOLO is out. If this kid did attack one of my people, rest assured he’s going down for it.”
Regardless of her assailant’s true identity, Maggie knew that the second he struck her, he’d elevated his status from intruder to attacker. To add fuel to the fire, assaulting a police officer came with the unenviable position of making him the focus of every member of law enforcement in the state.
“What was he doing there?” Corrigan asked.
“Looking for something.”
“Did he find it?”
Maggie shrugged, then wished she hadn’t. “I disturbed him, so it’s unlikely.”
“Flip side, Detective. What were you doing in the Cullen house in the middle of the night?”
“Following up on an earlier discovery.”
It wasn’t the whole truth, but she was hoping it was enough to excuse her unorthodox behavior. Better to get out in front of it on her own terms than allow Corrigan to wonder about her wider motive.
She saw him raise an eyebrow, and she explained about her finding the notebook in Dana’s dresser,
her intention to inspect it when they were there earlier in the day, only for that plan to be postponed in the wake of Loomis uncovering the work boots in the outdoor grill.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Not after finding Lindy like that. I thought I’d put the time to good use.”
“By coming down here and snooping around on private property.”
“Our search warrant has a twenty-four-hour window, sir. My actions were within protocols.”
“But outside the scope of normalcy. Besides, don’t preach to the converted, Detective. My concern is your clumsy timing and your disregard for safety. What were you thinking?”
“I think I was reacting,” she admitted.
It wasn’t like her. Rarely did she let emotion influence her decisions. In fact, Maggie had learned how to keep her emotions separate from her work. It was a necessary evil. Self-preservation. Some cases were heartbreaking. To let emotions interfere would be a disservice to the victims and their families. Plus, a detective couldn’t do her job if she was an emotional wreck all the time. It hadn’t been easy learning to completely dissociate when situations warranted a cool composure, but she’d mastered it.
Only, now things were personal. The Halloween Homicide had opened up a crack in her steely exterior, and she wasn’t sure if her reactiveness was down to her emotions leaking out, or the outside world leaking in.
“Despite everything,” Corrigan said, “you showed initiative and dedication. And I value that in my people. Let this be a lesson, Detective. Even something as innocent as a notebook could be your undoing.”
Corrigan didn’t know the half of it.
Maggie swallowed against the constant lump in her throat. “About that,” she said. “I’d like to take a proper look at the notebook, before Sergeant Smits talks to the state attorney.”
“Why?”
“I’m thinking it could contain substantiating evidence.”
“To cement the husband’s guilt? From what I hear, your sergeant has all he needs. This is an open-and-shut case.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure it is.”
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