The figure stepped inside her apartment and pushed the door shut. Their eyes stayed on hers. “Did you think this was a game?”
She shook her head but comprehension dawned. Her mind was scrambling, searching frantically for toeholds. The chance of Becky hearing her scream two floors above was remote. There was no chance of pushing past the person in the narrow hallway and even less chance to make it out the closed door without being grabbed.
“I have no idea what you want,” she heard herself beg. “Please just leave.” She stumbled backward, her leg banging against the wall.
The person took a step closer, leather-gloved hands reaching toward her. Leah turned to run into the living room, knowing she was trapped with no way out.
Knowing she was in very big trouble.
Chapter Two
As soon as he got into work Saturday morning, Jacques Rouleau dialled the long-distance number that Whelan, his former colleague on the Ottawa force, had forwarded to him the month before. It was the sixth time he’d tried in as many weeks. He’d resorted to calling at odd hours since nobody had returned his messages, even though he left his cellphone, home, and work numbers. He shifted the phone to his other hand. On the fourth ring, somebody picked up.
“Is this Shannon MacDonald? Yes? My name is Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau. I’ve left a few messages trying to track down Kala Stonechild.”
“Kala’s not here. Sorry I never called you back, but I had nothing to tell you.”
“She hasn’t been in touch?”
“No.” He heard a deep intake of her breath. “Kala came back to Red Rock and got her dog after she left Ottawa and disappeared into the bush. I haven’t heard from her since. It’s been four months, give or take.”
“I’m trying to hold the job in the Criminal Investigations Division in Kingston open for her, but I was handed a stack of resumes last week. I have to come up with a name by the end of the month.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Probably go ahead and fill it with someone else.”
“That might be my only option.”
He sensed she wasn’t telling him everything. He waited. The silence lengthened to the edge of social politeness. When she finally resumed talking, her voice was less certain, worried. “Kala wasn’t in a very good frame of mind last time I saw her. I’ve sent her several messages on her phone, but she hasn’t responded to any of them. She’s never been out of touch this long before.”
“She left Ottawa without much notice. Did something happen to upset her on the job?”
“It was a family matter. She didn’t talk about it much.”
Rouleau remembered Kala’s dark, haunted eyes, her closed-off expression the last time he’d seen her. For some reason he couldn’t name, he knew she needed his help. After only a few months of working together in Ottawa, he felt this irrational responsibility for her. “I’ll put off filling the position as long as I can. Let’s hope she gets in touch this week.”
“There’s no saying she’ll even want to work in Kingston with you.”
“I know, but something tells me she might.”
“You don’t really know much about her, do you, Detective?”
She was right, he didn’t. It was his turn to hesitate. “I know she’s a good cop and maybe could use a break,” he said at last.
“Kala’s not one who likes to owe anybody or have any favours done. She never gets attached. I wouldn’t hold my breath about her taking that job. I’ll let her know though, next time I hear from her.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He heard the clunk of the receiver and then the dial tone humming in his ear.
He walked away from his desk and stood in front of his office window on the second floor of the Kingston police detachment, thinking about the enigma that was Kala Stonechild. He couldn’t shake the worried feeling he got every time he thought of her. She’d seemed desperate, more alone than anyone he’d ever known. He’d scoured her personnel file for clues and knew she’d been in foster care as a kid, from the age of three. She’d all but disappeared after leaving high school until she turned twenty-two. He wondered what she’d done in those five years before she started college.
The view from his office window was Division Street and a farmer’s field beyond. He studied the limestone farmhouse with the purple door and the John Deere tractor parked in front of the well-maintained barn. The farm, now subdivided into treed lots with houses set back from the road, had seen more prosperous days. The owners at some point had sold off most of the property, likely staving off foreclosure. Still, he had to admire the current landlord for stubbornly clinging on to a dying way of life.
There was a knock at the door and Rouleau turned. Paul Gundersund’s lanky six-foot-two-inch frame filled the doorway. He crossed to Rouleau’s desk and set two mugs on the only clear surface between two stacks of folders. As he stepped back, he pushed blond hair out of his eyes. A muscle jumped where a scar marked his left cheek.
“We’ve got a call. Your line was busy so they put it through to me. A woman named Della Munroe says her husband raped her last night.”
“Where is she now?”
“Hospital with a counsellor. The beat cop took her statement and we’re to follow up.”
“Is she pressing charges?”
“Not sure. They’ve sent someone to pick up the husband, Brian.”
“Spousal rape is a bugger to prosecute.”
“Yeah. He hurt her though, so we might get lucky.”
Rouleau picked up his coffee and started toward the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his set of car keys, tossing them to Gundersund.
“You can drive.”
Rouleau and Gundersund sat across from Della Munroe in one of the small waiting rooms. They’d been given the go-ahead from the doctor to question Della about the rape. She’d decided to press charges.
Della’s eyes were luminous blue, red-rimmed from crying, still glistening with tears. She was taller than Rouleau had first thought, nearly matching his five-foot-ten when she stood to shake hands with him, but slender, with long, black hair and a heart-shaped face. She wore a green hospital gown and incongruously pink flip-flops with diamond sequins. Rouleau took a seat across from her. Gundersund remained standing near the door.
“Where’s your husband now, Mrs. Munroe?” he asked.
“Brian’s at his bakery. It’s the Sunshine Bakery on Brock Street, a few blocks from the university campus. I want to apply for a restraining order this morning.”
“We can get that started.”
Della pressed a tissue to her right eye and inhaled a shuddering breath. “I knew it wasn’t good between Brian and me for a long time, but this…. I never thought he’d do something like this. We should never have gotten married.”
“Your husband was abusive before?”
Her head barely inclined in response, her eyes avoiding his. “He was … obsessive about me. He insisted we move here and now I think it was so that I was away from my family and friends … that he wanted me isolated. I was just so stupid. But I made one friend, at least for a while. Celia Paules. She lives next door.” Della raised her eyes. “He made me stop visiting her last month. I’ve been such an idiot to let him do this to