UNTAMED SINNER
HENDRICKS
As I drive up to my house, coming back from a commission in Denver, I know something’s wrong.
The security system hasn’t tripped. Nothing looks out of place. But I’ve spent too many years learning that danger announces itself long before you see it.
Someone’s in my house.
I get out of my vehicle, grab my hanging bag, and head up the walkway.
The front door is still locked. I enter silently, setting the bag down when I see the kitchen light is on.
There’s water running.
As I go down the hallway, I reach into my suit coat and close my hand on the grip. At the doorway, I crouch and look in.
There’s a woman standing at my sink. Dark hair. Bare feet. One of my coffee mugs in her hand.
I don’t lower the pistol, because I know who she is.
“You’re slipping, Hendricks,” Mandy says without turning around as I enter the room.
There are any number of things I can ask her—like how the fuck she got into my house—but I don’t trust her, and I have no reason to believe she’ll tell me the truth.
So I say, “What do you want, Mandy?”
She faces me. For a second I see past her cocky facade and catch a glimpse of fear.
But she tamps that down hard. Leaning against the counter, she stares at me as she sips my coffee. Her gaze drops to the pistol at my side before lifting back to mine.
I keep it there, ready.
The corner of her mouth kicks up. Then she opens that mouth and says the last thing I ever expected. “Actually, Hendricks, I want you.”