Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Victoria blinked at the dark ceiling above her bed. She rolled over to check the lit clock on the nightstand.
She let out a small groan and returned to her back. Why couldn’t she sleep? She had to get up in less than five hours to get ready for work. She wasn’t even a night person.
But the logic didn’t seem to make a difference to her very awake system. She felt wired, energized, as if she’d drunk caffeinated coffee too late in the evening. And yet, exhaustion weighted her limbs at the same time.
So much for getting to bed early since she didn’t have much documentation—the one silver lining of missing her patient appointments due to police interrogation. Remembering that humiliating and frustrating experience, however, would not help her fall asleep.
Perhaps Mom’s warm milk trick would work. Or some green tea.
Victoria pulled back the comforter and sat up, dangling her legs off the side of the bed to find her shearling slippers.
Max’s dark eyes gleamed at her, catching the light from the hallway outside her partially open door.
She smiled at him where he lay in his open crate, his preferred spot even when he didn’t have to be confined. “I can’t sleep tonight for some reason. I’m going to get some tea. Would you like to join me?”
She stood and slipped on her robe as she went to the door.
The sound of Max rising and padding behind her drew her gaze to him.
“You’re a sweetheart to accompany me. Thank you.” She pushed open the door and walked through the hallway she always left illuminated while she slept. She kept the lights on in the kitchen, too, after reading home security advice to leave lights on overnight.
Now if she could only have some way to deter unhelpful thoughts from preying on her mind and keeping her awake.
Thump.
She whirled toward the sound, her heart leaping into her throat.
Max. The giant Leonberger had simply lain on the floor by the kitchen cabinets, which usually included a dramatic thud as he collapsed.
She pressed her hand to her chest where her heart pounded through the skin. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. Her nerves were wound tighter than the snarls she used to have to untangle from Treese’s long hair after every shower the girl took.
The dangers and stress of the past few days were apparently getting to Victoria more than she’d allowed herself to acknowledge.
She went to the corner cabinet and pulled out her tea kettle.
It wasn’t surprising she would be somewhat shaken.
In the span of four days, she’d been threatened by a knife-wielding thug, found her friend and patient dead, was followed to her car, knocked down by a mysterious attacker, and questioned by the police.
Oh, and someone had left a threatening note on her car.
She didn’t have to be weak for such a series of events to put her on her guard.
But as she filled the kettle from the faucet and set it on the stove to boil, the truth she wasn’t facing broke free of the vault where she’d tried to keep it locked away.
She sighed and turned from the stove, her gaze falling on the handsome dog who watched her with his usual serious expression.
“Oh, Max.” She went to him and crouched to stroke his soft ears and plant a kiss on his velvety head. “I can’t fool you, can I? You know something’s wrong. Somehow, I’m in trouble, even though I always try to do the right thing.”
His dark eyes stared into hers, as if he understood every word.
She smoothed her fingers over his dark muzzle, then stood. “I think you could offer me very good advice if you spoke English.”
But could anyone get her out of this mess?
Cillian and her father had seen each other tonight.
And it had been a disaster. More so than the brief meeting they’d had sixteen years ago when Victoria and Mom had tried to introduce Cillian to her father.
At least then, only her father had done the talking and Cillian had kept silent before he’d stalked off.
This time, Cillian had been far from silent. What had he been thinking, bursting into her father’s house and yelling at him like that?
But she knew what he’d been thinking. He wanted to protect her. That much was clear in what he’d said before, during, and after the confrontation.
Part of her, the part that had spiked gladness through her heart when he’d flung open the office door and told her father not to speak to her that way—that part of her was grateful.
No one had stood up for her against her father in such a strong and unapologetic manner.
No one had stood by her so resolutely without question or compromise, without shrinking and cowing before her father.
Perhaps because of the hours of police interrogation she had just endured, Cillian’s show of protectiveness and willingness to fight for her had raised her up from the depths of guilt and regret that Dad’s accusations had plummeted her into.
But only for a moment. Attacking Dr. Henry Weston never ended well for the person who had the nerve or lunacy to confront him. And Cillian doing so on her behalf would only mean they both would suffer greater wrath and consequences.
Her shock over what was happening—Cillian challenging her father openly to his face—had delayed her intervention for too long as the conflict escalated.
But at least she’d finally found enough strength to interrupt their faceoff and bring about some semblance of peace, at least between Dad and herself.
Thank the Lord that He had given her the idea to tell her father Detective McCully was carrying out a personal vendetta against her.
But she’d thought about the fallout as she had silently ridden in Cillian’s jeep all the way back to her car at the office.
Thankfully, Cillian hadn’t tried to follow her to her house after she’d thanked him and quickly left, seeking refuge in her own cold car.
Hank had been waiting at home with Max, and Victoria did not need another family member learning about Cillian.
She’d already noted Treese staring at them from the staircase as Victoria had pulled him from the house.
Treese had probably heard most of the argument in the study, and perhaps she’d seen him enter.
Victoria only hoped they hadn’t spoken. What would Cillian have told Treese about their relationship? Their history?
Treese likely wouldn’t recognize him, since she had only been nine or ten the last time she had seen Cillian. And he had only been to the house twice.
Unease squeezed Victoria’s stomach. What Treese had heard or recalled wasn’t nearly as significant as what had transpired with her father.
He knew now that Cillian had returned. And he clearly thought Victoria was in a relationship with Cillian again, despite her protest.
She worked so hard to keep her father happy, to stay on his good side so she could be an advocate and go-between for her siblings. That was the only way she could keep the family together and peaceful as her mother would have wanted. Would tonight’s events jeopardize that?
She would need to speak with her father again, without Cillian this time. Perhaps she could convince him that Cillian wasn’t the cause of the trouble she was in, as her father had claimed.
The memory of the things Dad had said about Cillian, with him standing right there, made her wince.
He’d been so rude and unkind to Cillian.
But she could never tell her father that or call him out for his behavior.
Direct criticism made her father angrier than anything else.
He never seemed to forget or forgive anyone who dared to critique him personally.
So she had done her best to end the mischaracterization of Cillian by redirecting her father’s attention to Detective McCully. And by making a quick ex—
A scream broke the silence.
Victoria’s breath caught.
Not a scream. Only the tea kettle’s high-pitched whistle.
Air returned to her lungs, but her pulse sprinted erratically. She pressed her hand over her racing heart. She really needed to calm down and stop overreact—
A booming bark filled the kitchen, making her flinch again.
“Max?” She glanced at the dog as he stood. “Why are you barking? It’s only the tea kettle.” She lifted the kettle from the stove, and the high-pitched sound rapidly faded.
Another bark jerked her head toward Max. His bark was so much louder than she remembered. He had only barked one other time in his life, probably two years ago.
He stared through the doorway to the hallway, his ears high and his stance rigid. His tail tucked between his legs.
Strange. Max was easily and often frightened, but his fear never made him bark.
Her mouth grew dry as her pulse accelerated again. “What is it, Max?”
The hallway led to the garage door. Could there be an animal or something in her garage?
The or something possibility gripped her mind.
She stepped out into the hallway, inching her way to the closed door that led to the garage.
A sound. Something shaking or rattling?
She froze.
Max let out another woof and rushed up to her, bumping his head into the backs of her knees as he stayed hidden behind her. The poor boy’s tail tucked more tightly between his legs, and his ears flattened against the sides of his head.
She wasn’t helping his fear level. She took in a breath and pulled her shoulders back.
God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
The reminder straight from Scripture pushed back her apprehension. She used to have to deal with many an unknown sound and imaginary danger when alone at night, watching the children in their big house. She could certainly face another threat—real or imaginary—with God’s protection.
She glanced around for something she could use as a weapon if necessary.
The shovel she’d used to clear snow off the driveway leaned against the wall in the corner where she’d left it. Grabbing the long handle, she stepped in front of the door, inhaled through her nose, and slowly turned the knob.
She opened the door a crack and peered through.
Darkness stared back at her. If someone was in the garage, the intruder would be able to see her well with the hallway light on. She should have thought of that, but it was too late now.
She’d better even the playing field. She opened the door wide enough to reach through to the light switch on the wall outside the door.
The bulbs in the ceiling lit, instantly illuminating the single-car garage.
She scanned the small space. No noises or signs of anything amiss.
The big overhead door and the side door were closed.
Had she imagined the sound she’d heard? But what about Max? There had to be a reason he had barked.
She shifted her grip on the shovel handle, forcing a swallow down her sandpaper throat.
She should check the whole garage to be sure there was no danger.
On those nights when she’d been the one her siblings had trusted and depended on, she had checked the whole mansion alone.
She’d made sure they were safe, even when she’d had to check empty rooms in the big house that had once been warm and happy but seemed so cold and frightening after Mom was gone.
Especially those first nights and weeks.
Though they were followed by the long first months, when mothering and responsibility had filled her days and lonely isolation and regret had darkened her nights.
She was used to it now—all grown up with shoulders strengthened to endure the weight of responsibility with joy. Speaking of which…
Recognizing her own stalling, she shrugged off the hesitation and walked purposefully around her parked car.
She probably should have approached the other side of it more cautiously, checking around the hood first. But she was beginning to feel rather ridiculous, carrying a shovel around her garage in her robe and pajamas at night.
She only hoped the neighbors wouldn’t catch a glimpse of her embarrassing behavior through the small windows halfway up the garage wall.
Nothing odd on either side of the car or behind it. She even squatted to peer under the vehicle.
Empty shadows greeted her searching gaze, thank the Lord.
Only one thing left to check—the only explanation she could think of for the sound she had heard.
She stepped to the side door and stared at the knob. The sound she’d heard had a familiarity to it. She gripped the knob and turned without unlocking it first.
Not quite the same sound. It had been more rapid.
She twisted the knob again, back and forth, quickly.
She jerked her hand back as her pulse lurched.
That was it. The same noise.
Had someone been twisting the knob from outside, trying to access her garage?
Her heart lodged in her throat. But she had to know, had to make sure she was safe, or she would never be able to sleep tonight.
She moistened her lips with her tongue. Lord, please keep me safe or stop me if I’m being unwise.
Rotating the small lock on the knob, she gripped the handle again and opened the door. She swung it wide, pushing it with her hand so it would hit the outside wall, ensuring no one hid behind it.
She held her breath, waiting for someone to jump in front of her.
But only cold wind greeted her, whisking inside and chilling her cheeks. Its swirling sound was all she heard, the black sky silent above the leafless trees of her neighbor’s yard.
She stepped to the doorway and leaned out, checking right and left.
Nothing but the white siding of her house greeted her. That and the matching snow on the ground that had fallen earlier that day, while she’d been at the police station.
And footprints.
Her heart rate sped up again.
But of course, there would be prints. Hank had entered through the side door to feed Max for her.
His feet were larger than average, a men’s sixteen shoe size. She knew, since she had been the one to buy each sequential shoe size for him as he’d grown rapidly during his teen years.
Indeed, some of the prints were massive.
But there were others. Smaller. An average men’s size.
She stared at the prints as her heart bumped into her ribs.
Their direction indicated the wearer of those unfamiliar shoes had come around the front of her house and walked directly up to the side door of the garage.
And if she and Max were correct, the man had then tried to enter her house.