Chapter 20
She slowed as she passed the Wilson house. As usual, it was dark. With each passing day, the place showed more signs of neglect. Weeds along the walkway had grown taller; the grass was now ankle high. With no one to stop them, mail and newspapers piled up by the door.
Erica drove by the Dwyers’ house next. Their porch light blinked erratically, as if it were about to burn out. She’d run into Eileen yesterday in the produce section at H-E-B. Her daughter and Cheyenne were friends.
“The girls have been talking,” Eileen had said, voice low.
“Cheyenne isn’t herself… but how could she be after all that?
” Then, with a troubled glance. “A property management company stopped by the other day. Looks like they’re getting ready to rent it out.
But who would want to live in a murder house?
” She let out a shaky sigh. “I can’t believe this happened on our quiet little street. It’s horrible.”
Horrible didn’t begin to cover it, especially for Cheyenne. Losing both parents so young, and so violently, was unthinkable. Erica hoped she’d find peace away from here.
She pulled into her driveway then sat in her car. Coming home with him the other night had felt different—safer, warmer, and far less empty. Heat climbed into her cheeks. She still couldn’t believe she’d as good as jumped him after the cookout.
A tingling along her spine snapped her upright. That feeling again. Of being watched.
She scanned the block but saw nothing obvious. No idling vehicles or dog walkers. And no late-night smokers. She rarely used the garage, but tonight, she pressed the remote on her visor.
The door lifted slowly, revealing the clutter inside: stacked canvases, easels, and paint supplies, leaving barely enough room to pull in. She stayed in the car until the garage door sealed behind her. Right before it did, a furry gray blur darted inside.
Whiskers wound himself around her ankles the moment she got out of the car, meowing plaintively.
“Bet you’re not as hungry as I am,” she murmured, bending to scratch behind his ears. “Come on. Let’s go see what we can find.”
Inside, she dumped her phone, purse, keys, and pepper spray onto the kitchen counter. Then she checked her locks and reset the alarm. Her house should have felt secure. Yet unease clung to her like static.
“Pull it together,” she muttered.
Her stomach growled. And no wonder. It was nine thirty, and she hadn’t eaten since her morning coffee and granola bar.
She turned toward the kitchen, already inventorying the contents of her fridge in her head. As she passed her front window, a flicker of light caught her eye. She paused.
It couldn’t be lightning. The sky was clear, and West Texas hadn’t seen rain in weeks. Maybe the Dwyers’ porch light had given out.
She switched off her living room lamp and peered outside. A light glowed in the Wilsons’ front window.
Air stalled in her chest. It hadn’t been on before. The house had been dark since the police wrapped up.
Whiskers let out a low growl, his fur standing up along his spine.
She bent and scooped him up. “I feel it too.”
The light suddenly went out. A few seconds later, deeper in the house, another flared to life. She moved behind the drape, watching it move from room to room. Systematic.
Then the pattern broke. Darkness swallowed the house again. Until a light went on upstairs. A silhouette paused in the center window. It seemed to stare straight at her house. Or at her.
Erica jumped back, heart hammering.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
When she dared to look again, the figure was gone.
She rushed to the island, grabbed her phone, and switched off her kitchen light as she returned to the window. As she watched the same on-and-off pattern move through the second floor, she dialed.
“Please answer,” she pleaded in a whisper as it rang. “Oh, thank goodness,” she blurted when Coop picked up. “Someone’s in the Wilson house.”
She heard silence. Not long but enough for dread to pool in her stomach.
“The evidence team didn’t say anything about going again,” he said, as if to himself. Then his tone sharpened. “Are you sure?”
“I saw him in the upstairs window,” she snapped, panic edging her voice. “And lights turning off and on.”
His response softened. “I’m on my way. Doors locked. Stay inside.”
“They are. I am. Please hurry.”
“I’m calling in units. I’ll be there in ten.” He paused for half a second. “Make it seven.”
He disconnected, and she wished he’d stayed on the line, like a 911 operator would, keeping her calm. All she could do was wait, watching more lights and more passing shadows.
Her pulse ticked off the seconds. She checked her phone at two minutes and again at four. When she next checked, six minutes had passed—an eternity.
She peeked around the drapes again. She held her breath, counting to ten, but the house had gone still and dark once more.
“Hurry, Vince,” she whispered. “Before they get away.”
A knock sounded at her front door.
She jumped, even though she’d been waiting for it. Whiskers shrieked and bolted under the sofa.
“That’s all I need,” she muttered, rushing to answer it. “A cat as jumpy as me.”
She paused the alarm, unlocked the dead bolt, and threw it wide, ready to launch herself into his arms.
But she jerked to a stop. A short, stocky man stood on her porch. Forty, maybe. Thick through the middle, a button straining on his shirt. Slick dark hair around a fleshy face with watchful eyes.
“Miss Stevens,” he said calmly, in a heavy foreign accent. Distinctively Russian.
Terror knifed through her. She shoved the door closed.
He caught it, forcing her to retreat. Then he entered and shut it behind him with an ominous click.
“Tsk, tsk. You open door without asking who it is?”
His Rs were clipped and slightly rolled. Vs became Ws, like the men in the warehouse with Cheyenne.
“Get out of my house.”
“I will. But you come with me. My employer wants to meet you.”
Her mind raced. The pepper spray was on the counter. Knives in a butcher block by the stove. Dammit! Why had she never bought a gun? This was Texas!
As she edged toward the kitchen, he advanced, unhurried but coldly menacing. “Don’t make this trouble.”
She spun to run—
His fist tangled in her hair and jerked her off-balance. Pain burned across her scalp, making her eyes water, but the cry that tore from her lips came from the vision that hit.
A dark office. A heavy wooden desk. An older man sat behind it, hands folded. She felt nothing. Not the quiet she felt with Vince. This was different. Controlled. Indifferent. Bone chilling in its emptiness.
Lamplight glinted off a diamond ring she’d seen too many times, in too many nightmares. When she forced air into her lungs, a distinct scent overwhelmed her… mint.
The images changed. The office fell away, replaced by a vague, enclosed space and Shannon’s tear-streaked face. But she looked different. She was thinner, her hair lighter.
The vision broke apart, scattered by the searing burst of pain in her scalp as the intruder dragged her toward the door. She clawed at his hands, desperate to relieve the pressure.
He didn’t seem to notice, ordering as he walked, “As a guest of Mr. Kedrov, you will be polite.”
A crash exploded from the front of the house, wood splintering and the unmistakable sound of a door giving way. Pain lanced through her scalp as he jerked in surprise. The metallic click of a gun followed, distinctive even to someone who’d never chambered a weapon.
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
She knew that voice. It was cold and lethal, but unmistakably his. Relief rushed in.
Her captor whirled, shoving her hard. She stumbled straight into Coop. He caught her with one arm, keeping her from falling, and surged forward in the same motion.
Dazed and hurting, the room tilted. Erica braced a hand against the wall, unable to do anything but watch as the Russian bolted for the back of the house.
Coop was faster and tackled him in the kitchen.
The man went down hard but came up fighting.
A chair overturned, and a cabinet door splintered as they grappled.
A knockout punch swung at his head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, slamming him into the counter hard enough to rattle the cupboards.
Wood cracked. Pans clattered onto the floor. She flinched but couldn’t look away.
The thickset man grunted, twisting and reaching into his jacket. Coop caught his wrist mid-draw, wrenched it down, and drove him face-first into the tile.
There was a sickening crack of bone, then the man bucked, roaring something in Russian. Boots scraped. Bodies strained. The man was powerful, thick through the shoulders, built like a battering ram, but Coop was fit and had training.
He shifted his weight, pinned a flailing arm at an angle that stole its strength, and snapped a cuff around the wrist. The man thrashed wildly, but he didn’t budge.
“You’re done,” he growled. A few more grunts, and the second cuff ratcheted shut. He reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out a gun. “You’re also under arrest. Aggravated assault to start with.”
Sirens wailed outside, growing louder. Red and blue lights flashed against the kitchen walls.
The Russian lay facedown on the tile, breathing hard and no longer resisting. With his arms pinned behind and a knee anchoring him, he couldn’t.
Boots pounded across her porch. Voices raised. Officers rushed in, weapons drawn.
Coop held up his badge. “Is someone across the street? He may not have been alone.”
“We’ve got men on it,” one officer said.
Her living room filled with uniforms. Radios crackled. Voices overlapped, lower now. The crashes and sickening thuds of flesh on flesh, and bone cracking had stopped. It was over.
Erica’s heart pounded like it hadn’t gotten the message. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the wall. She sat trembling, her house in shambles.
A question echoed. Was it over, really?
The violence had been across the street once. In a warehouse miles away. Tonight, it had come through her front door.
One second, she was alone, trying to contain her rising panic. The next, he was there, crouched in front of her.
“You with me, darlin’?”
She might have answered or shaken her head. She wasn’t sure. Still locked on the broken chair, splintered cabinets, and the police swarming the mobster responsible for it all.
“Erica. Look at me.”
She did. Trembling harder.
His hands framed her face, thumbs gently brushing away her tears. “Where are you hurt?”
She lifted a hand to her tender scalp, touching gingerly. “He yanked my hair. Hard. Then you came in. Before he could do worse.”
Despite her denial, he scanned her from head to toe, searching for damage.
“I saw him,” she whispered.
“Who?”
Her voice shook. “The same man Cheyenne and Shannon did.”
Something dark crossed his face. “Tell me everything later.”
The thug was hauled upright and escorted—none too gently—out the door.
An officer stopped beside them. “Is she good, Lieutenant? Need medics?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ll need her statement.”
He nodded. “Give us a minute.”
“Sure thing,” he said, and walked out.
Quiet descended over the house. She stared at her ruined kitchen. A cabinet hanging askew, glass shards on the floor. She hadn’t registered it shattering.
“Vince,” she whispered, reaching for him.
He gripped her hand, pulled her to her feet, then into his arms. “Pack a bag.”
It wasn’t loud or panicky. It was an order, however, and absolute.
Her house and studio, her safe places, weren’t safe anymore. She leaned into him, the only haven she had left.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” His arms tightened, and his voice dropped. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Not a reassurance. A promise.
“Pack enough for a few days,” he said gently. “I’ll be right here.”
She walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, aware of him behind her, a solid, immovable shield between her and the rest of the suddenly more terrifying world.