Rosalyn’s Hero (Heroes of Sleepy Hollow #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ROSALYN

I still haven’t gotten used to how quiet it is.

The studio space I used to share in Queens was always filled with noise—one of the artists playing their music loud enough to hear through their headphones, cars honking and sirens blaring outside, the old boiler creaking and moaning, sounding like it was on the verge of dying.

I didn’t mind it, exactly. It was all a part of the excitement of living in the city. The near-constant buzz a reminder that I was there. I was doing it. All my childhood dreams were coming true.

It was like I’d always imagined—actually making a living as an artist, working until well after midnight in a big, drafty space with views of the city, surrounded by other talented artists who’d inspire me.

Except.

After four years of it, I realized those dreams don’t really fit me. They might fit a romanticized version of me—outgoing, urbane—but the real me? Not really.

I still love working as an artist, but I could pass on the rest of it.

Living in the city that never sleeps? I like quiet nights and black skies lit by a swathe of stars.

All the people? Sharing a workspace? The other artists always bringing their friends or partners around, insisting on drawing me into their conversation? I’m not as shy as I used to be, but being social is still a struggle. Especially with people I don’t know well.

The drafty studio in an old factory in Queens? It was cold. Creepy. And I was constantly worried that someone’s space heater would overheat and burn the entire place down.

I didn’t really love working after midnight, either. Walking around the city during the day was one thing, but late at night, with only the pepper spray and alert whistle my cousin insisted I carry with me everywhere? At thirty-four, I shouldn’t have let it scare me, but it did.

So this move to Sleepy Hollow has been good for me.

It took a while to get here—first realizing that New York City was making me unhappy, coming up with a plan to fix it, and then actually making it happen. I saved everything I could; selling my extra paintings, picking up commissions for wealthy New Yorkers who would pay a premium for me to paint their portrait, and teaching extra classes at the university. Then I scoured real estate listings for months until I found the perfect spot—this tiny, rundown storefront in Sleepy Hollow—to turn into my new studio.

Right now, it’s not much to look at. It needs new paint and floors, the sink leaks, there’s water damage in a few places, and half the outlets don’t work. “It’s too small for most proprietors to be interested in it,” the realtor explained as she showed me the space. “They want bigger. Updated spaces. And they don’t like that it’s not on the main street.”

I didn’t mind. Off the main street that cuts through downtown Sleepy Hollow means it’s quieter. And I don’t need big—just enough space to display my paintings, and hopefully, once I’ve gotten settled, some other local artists as well.

After all, I know how hard it is to make a name for yourself as an artist. It never happens for a lot of people. If not for winning my award four years ago, I’d most likely still be slaving away in relative obscurity, as well.

If not for the Future Generation Art Prize, I wouldn’t be working as a full-time artist, I wouldn’t be able to rent my own studio space in this cute little town outside New York City, and I wouldn’t have the time to spend days perfecting a painting like the one I’m working on now.

It’s the first in a new series, inspired by the mountains of New York. This one incorporates several of the High Peaks of the Adirondacks, but done in my signature style—a sort of abstract impressionism, but with small elements of realism mixed in.

Right now, I’m meticulously recreating a tiny lake at the foot of the mountains—just as I saw it when I visited last year—right down to the minuscule kayak cutting across the water. I’m determined to get it right before I wrap up for the night, even though it’s later than I planned to work.

All the other stores and businesses have been closed for hours, which is another reason why it’s so quiet. But I’m not anxious about walking down the street to my car, or heading home on my own. Not here. The realtor—Amy—even bragged about how safe Sleepy Hollow is, and when I looked up her claims online afterwards, everything she said was true.

Almost no violent crime, only a few break-ins, and the majority of crimes reported were misdemeanors. And the few serious crimes that were committed against people who knew the offenders—a man kidnapping his brother’s girlfriend, and a woman intent on getting revenge against her son’s high school girlfriend.

Both sound horrible, but as I barely know anyone in this town, and I haven’t had time in the two months I’ve been here to make someone homicidally angry at me, I think I’m safe.

Although. Maybe I should knock on wood. Just in case.

I rap my knuckles lightly on my easel and immediately picture my cousin Drake making fun of me for it. He doesn’t believe in superstitions, and he’d always laugh when I used to avoid ladders or stepping on cracks when I was a kid.

It’s not that I think anything bad would happen if I walked under a ladder. But why take my chances?

Almost as if I conjured him, my phone buzzes, and Drake’s name appears on the screen.

I know he’ll worry if I don’t reply right away, so I set my brush down and pick up my phone to read his message.

Hey Ro. How’s everything going? You still liking it in Sleepy Hollow?

I smile as I type my reply.

Everything is good. Sleepy Hollow is great. Quiet. Just how I like it.

The three dots blink for a second.

Good. I still would have liked to check out your apartment, though. And the studio. Do you have good security? And are you still working this late? You are, aren’t you?

Eeep. My overprotective cousin won’t like the answers to any of those questions. Since I really don’t want him worrying over nothing, I fudge the truth a bit.

Just about to head home. And Sleepy Hollow is very safe. But I’m having new cameras installed soon. At the studio and apartment.

It’s not a lie. I’m going to get some Ring cameras soon. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

His reply is immediate.

Don’t put it off. It’s important. If you need help, I know some guys who could stop by. Just tell me. I want you to be safe.

And now I feel guilty. I guess I’m ordering some cameras on Amazon tonight, and figuring out how to install them tomorrow.

I’ve got it handled. I promise. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ve got to finish up here. Tell Alaska hi from me. Love you .

It takes longer for the next message to appear.

Ok. Take care of yourself. And go home! Love you.

I shake my head, smiling as I set down the phone. I can’t be upset by Drake’s overprotectiveness, considering everything he went through with his wife, Alaska. She was abducted by traffickers, and then nearly abducted again, but thankfully Drake and his friends out in New Mexico were able to rescue her.

I really need to make some time to go see them. Even though I’ve been busy, that’s not an excuse. Not for someone who’s been like a brother to me.

When my mom got sick and sent me to stay with my aunt, I was initially intimidated by my cousin. He was only in middle school, but to a first-grader, he seemed so much older. But instead of being annoyed by a sad and confused little girl, he was endlessly patient with me. He taught me games, helped me get my first library card, and even bought me my first sketchbook.

And on the nights I got scared, convinced my mom was going to die, Drake would stay up for hours just reading with me. He’d even do funny voices to make me laugh.

My mom got better, thankfully. But ever since then, I’ve been really close with Drake and my aunt, spending summers and holidays together whenever we can.

So, yeah. I need to visit Drake and Alaska. Soon.

Or maybe they can visit me? They might enjoy going into the city, and I could take them to the Manhattan gallery that shows my work. Or we could just hang around Sleepy Hollow, spending some quiet time together.

I decide to finish the detailing on my little lake later—I’m actually getting tired, and now my focus is fading—and head over to my leaky sink to clean off my brushes.

As I wait for the water to warm up, I run through all the things I need to host Drake and Alaska at my place. Another bed to go in the tiny guest bedroom. A dresser. Some nightstands. An actual dining set instead of the tiny cafe table that only seats two people. A full-sized couch.

Or maybe I should go visit them instead.

Except I need all that stuff. If I’m going to have friends in Sleepy Hollow, maybe even a boyfriend, I can’t bring them over to a half-empty apartment. And while I’m not actively trying to be social, I’ve met a few people I can see getting to know better.

I don’t have a ton of money in savings after all the moving expenses, but maybe I can find some stuff on Amazon. Or one of those estate sales. If it’s nice this weekend, I could take a few hours, drive around the area?—

A loud crash breaks the silence.

Glass shatters.

My heart leaps into my throat.

What could it be? Possibilities fly rapid-fire through my head.

One of the ceiling lights falling? A teenager throwing something at the window? One of the shelves in the storage closet collapsing?

And then another sound. A metallic snick.

Something drags across the floor, grinding.

The door.

Oh, please no.

Then it gets worse.

Footsteps.

I can’t see what’s happening; not in the little alcove around the corner from where the counter used to be.

The little alcove that used to house a broken microwave and a mini-fridge for the previous employees, but now holds all my cleaning supplies.

The alcove that hides me from whoever just broke in, but also leaves me trapped. As soon as I step out of here, they’ll see me.

And there’s only one door, so I have to go past whoever this is to escape. Someone who may have a weapon. And I have nothing but brushes and paint thinner and some palette knives, which I’d be lucky to slice butter with.

What should I do? I can hear footsteps moving around the studio, heavy and threatening.

A voice moves toward me, clearly masculine, low and rough.

How far away is he? Can I keep hiding here? Will he find whatever he wants and leave?

Something crashes to the floor.

My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest. Each breath is a struggle. Gray dots dance in front of my vision.

But I can’t panic. What would Drake do?

Well. He’d have his phone, instead of leaving it twenty feet away by the easel. He’d have the pepper spray with him. And he’d use the skills he learned during his years as a SEAL to take the intruder down.

Why did I stubbornly refuse to let him teach me self-defense?

The footsteps draw closer, and I catch a whiff of body odor, tinged with a hint of onion. The man mutters, “Where’s the fucking bitch?”

Oh, God. I’m so scared.

He’s close. I have to do something .

Can I stab him with a palette knife? If I get him in the eye…

Nausea sweeps through me, but I grab a palette knife in each shaking hand, anyway.

Wait for him to find me? Or try to take him by surprise?

Soon I won’t have a choice.

So I take a stuttering breath and I leap out of the alcove, both knives held high. And I shout, “Get out of here! I’ve called the police!”

Dark eyes meet mine, startled for only a moment before narrowing at me. It’s all I can see of him—everything else is covered. Black hoodie, pulled up and tied tightly around his head. A black gaiter covering his mouth and nose. Nondescript black pants and steel-toed boots. And?—

Oh, God. Gloves.

Icy terror makes my lungs seize. But I rush forward anyway, slashing the knives at him, screaming, “Get out get out get out of here!”

He doesn’t move right away, and for just a second, I think it might work.

Then he punches me, knocking me to the floor.

Pain explodes in my cheek.

Everything goes fuzzy.

When my vision clears, he’s right above me. His hand is wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, but tight enough that I’m afraid to move.

“Where’s the rest of the money?” he hisses, his dark eyes snapping at me. They’re bloodshot and wild, almost crazed.

Drugs? Is that it?

“Wallet,” I wheeze. “Purse. Over there.”

His grip convulses around my neck, cutting off my air for a second. “Not that. Where’s the rest of it? It’s a fucking store. Where’s the safe?”

“I don’t… It’s not… Just a studio…”

“No fucking safe?” His eyes bore into me. “There has to be something .”

“There isn’t.” Now I’m sobbing in panic and fear. “I don’t have anything else. Just my wallet. That’s all.”

“Fuck!” He hits me again, this time causing hot blood to fill my mouth.

“Please,” I stammer. “Take my wallet and go.”

“What a fucking waste.” He stands and stares down at me. “Don’t fucking move until I’m gone. Or I’ll kill you.”

He’s leaving? Oh please, let him leave. Let this be over.

His gaze flashes to the broken front door, and I let myself hope.

I’m not hurt too badly, I can replace everything in my wallet, it’s not that bad?—

Then he kicks me in the ribs, driving all the air from my lungs.

I can’t breathe.

As I lie on the floor, gasping, he lifts his giant boot and stomps on my hand.

His heel grinds in.

Something snaps.

An agonized cry rips out of me. It’s the worst pain I’ve felt in my life.

“Fucking bitch.”

As he runs off, I hunch into myself, clutching my injured hand with the other one. A low, keening sound comes from the back of my throat.

I’m not sure how much time goes by before my brain starts working again.

Hide. Call for help. Hide. Call for help.

Somehow, I force myself to my feet, and I stumble over to where I left my phone. It’s miraculously still there and unbroken. Not like the canvas that’s lying torn on the floor beside it.

I snatch up the phone and run to the little storage closet, yanking the door shut behind me. Then I sink to the floor and jab at the screen, but it takes several tries before my trembling fingers can dial the numbers.

By the time the operator picks up, I’m crying so hard I can’t speak. But finally, finally , I manage to choke out, “Someone… broke into my studio. He… he hurt me. I’m… in the closet. Please. I need help.”

She tries to soothe me, reassuring me that the police are on their way, that everything will be okay.

But it won’t be okay.

My right hand is swollen to twice its size. Two fingers are clearly broken. Tread marks are embedded in my skin. One of my knuckles is crooked and bleeding.

It’s grotesque.

My hand .

No.

This can’t be happening.