It seemed to Sarah she’d done nothing but toss and turn since dropping onto the bed in a state of exhaustion at almost four a.m. She untangled herself from the covers and punched the button to light up the dial of her watch. It was ten after five. Sleep wasn’t going to come.
She slid her feet into the scuffs that had fallen at the bedside. She shrugged out of her robe, then went to the closet and wrapped herself in Harry’s robe, one she’d kept because even after eight months she thought she could smell his after-shave lotion in it. Even now, it felt like she’d put on a suit of armor. It was a little like Harry was there with her. And she needed that.
Sarah padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, she flipped on the coffee maker and waited, hoping the scent of the freshly brewed coffee would overcome some of the smell of smoke that seemed to follow her wherever she went in the house.
She looked at her watch and wondered how long it would be before she could begin making phone calls. Sarah moved to one of the kitchen cabinets, opened a drawer, and withdrew a notepad and pencil. Then, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and began to make a list of the tasks that faced her.
* * *
The last emergency vehicle had gone. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and there were no streetlights nearby. He couldn’t have planned better circumstances for watching unobserved. With the car windows partially open to let in the night breeze, he was comfortable leaning back behind the steering wheel. Other than a couple of officers driving by earlier, apparently the police had decided that regular patrols in the area weren’t necessary for the rest of the night. That suited him just fine.
The house had been dark since he drove up, but he knew that didn’t mean its occupant was sleeping. Sure enough, at that moment the light in an upstairs room came on. In a few minutes another window, this one downstairs, was lit, the illumination faint as though from a light in an adjoining room. He figured she’d been unable to sleep, had tossed and turned before eventually getting out of bed. Now she was probably sitting in the kitchen, perhaps drinking coffee or tea, wondering why this had happened.
Well, that was the point of the whole exercise, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to kill her—not yet. First, she had to suffer—not necessarily physically—but she had to suffer. That’s what this was about—the waiting, the wondering, the fear. The dying would come later.
Chapter 2
2
Kyle Andrews sat hunched over his laptop computer at his kitchen table, his second cup of coffee at his elbow, skimming the news headlines. He looked up from the computer, took a sip of coffee, and wondered if it would be a good idea to call Sarah.
He’d first met Harry and Sarah Gordon when he came to town to set up his law practice. He’d actually met them where a lot of people in Jameson met—at the First Community Church. It wasn’t long before he and Harry became good friends, and Sarah appeared to be happy about that. Soon thereafter, Kyle met someone else at church, someone who changed his life. It wasn’t too many months later that he was engaged to Nicole, and the two couples double-dated frequently after that.
Nicole’s sudden death had left Kyle with a hole in his heart, but he’d tried not to show it. After all, that was what Christians did. But when Harry and Jenny were killed, Kyle figured he, more than most, had a sense of how the tragic death of a loved one might affect Sarah. And that was even more reason for him to offer support to her now.
Harry had never said, “If something happens to me, take care of Sarah.” Kyle figured he didn’t have to. That sort of thing was understood between friends. In the eight months since Harry’s death, Kyle had worked hard not to press Sarah, while still making sure she knew he was there for her. He’d like to do more, but there never seemed to be the right opening. For now he’d best simply stay close and be available.
Would this be a good time to call? He looked at his watch. Not quite eight. It was Saturday, and she might be sleeping in. On the one hand—
The ring of his cell phone made him look up from his computer. When he saw the caller ID he realized his decision had been made for him. Sarah was calling.
“Good morning,” he said. “I was about to call and see how you’re doing.”
“That’s why I’m phoning. I . . . I need your help this morning.”
“As a friend or as a lawyer?” Kyle reached for his coffee cup. “Did you get a speeding ticket yesterday, Sarah?” He smiled at the thought. Sarah was the epitome of the term, “straight arrow.”
“I’m meeting with the police this morning, Kyle, and I’d like you to be there with me.”
Kyle set the cup on the table without drinking. “Of course I’ll be there, but what’s going on? This sounds serious.”
The silence that followed went on longer than Kyle would like. Finally, Sarah said, “Someone tried to set fire to my house last night. That is, someone started a fire in my garage. It didn’t do much damage except for the smoke, but the police called it arson and want to talk with me this morning. I’m sure they’re going to ask me who might want to do such a thing, but—”
“But they have to consider whether a homeowner might do something like this to collect insurance,” Kyle said, finishing her thought. “Who are you meeting and what time?”
“Bill Larson said he’d call and set it up.”
Kyle’s mental file whirred and spit out data on Detective Larson. Late thirties, dark hair that always seemed to need a trim, not really handsome but possessor of just the type of rugged good looks some women liked. Larson had a reputation for persistence among the lawyers in town. When he was working a case, he was like a dog with a bone, never turning loose until he finished. That didn’t bother Kyle, but the presence of another man in Sarah’s life at this point was a bit disconcerting.
Of course, there were also whispers circulating around the courthouse that Larson’s excessive drinking was the reason for his divorce. The man’s ex-wife and son had moved to Montana, while Larson was starting over here in Texas. Evidently the detective had it more or less together thus far in his new situation—at least, it seemed that way. But Kyle knew that with alcoholics the struggle was lifelong and never-ending. An alcoholic was never “recovered,” just “recovering.” Larson would bear watching—on several levels.
“Did you see Larson after all this took place?” Kyle asked.
“Yes, we sat in the fire chief’s SUV and talked a bit. I didn’t really answer all his questions, but I think he could tell how upset I was. He suggested we meet today.” She cleared her throat. “Will you go with me?”
“Sarah, just tell me where and when. I’ll be with you as a friend, not simply as a lawyer.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But if I need a lawyer, I want you.”
You’ve always had me, Sarah . . . >and not just as a lawyer.
* * *
Bill Larson heard her footsteps before he saw her. He got up from his desk in the otherwise deserted police squad room. “Sarah . . . ” he started to say. But he stopped the word before it left his mouth. Keep it professional. “Dr. Gordon, thank you for coming down here,” he said.
She took the chair he indicated. “I . . . I didn’t think I had much choice.”
“Last night you didn’t seem up to answering too many questions. Coming here this morning seemed more convenient for both of us,” Larson said. “It saved me some time and effort. That’s all.”
“I hope I haven’t missed too much.”