The plastic sheets the Amish workmen had hung over the opening for the window flapped in the wind. The snapping sound—along with the rumble of thunder in the distance—was disconcerting in the dark of night.
For a long moment, Heather stared at the rippling plastic, trying to decide if she should barricade herself in the bathroom and call 9-1-1 because someone had slipped in through the opening or if perhaps the wind had somehow torn the plastic sheeting from its staples.
With her back flat against the wall, she didn’t let go of the golf club. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows. A crack of lightning illuminated the new breakfast nook. A metal mop and broom had been upended and had come to rest in the corner.
A shaky groan of relief ripped from her throat as the need to both laugh and cry at the same time overwhelmed her. The metal bucket must have made the crashing sound. Not an intruder. She set the golf club against the wall, then examined the plastic sheet more closely. She couldn’t leave it like that or the rain would warp the plywood that formed the base of the new hardwood floors that were scheduled to go in soon.
She glanced at the time on her cell phone. The workmen wouldn’t be there till morning. And she couldn’t very well call her Amish handyman this late at night. Even though he was allowed to have a cell phone for work purposes, she doubted he kept it on his bedside table as she had. The rules provided limits.
Come on, you can do it, a little voice inside her head nudged her. You want to own a business? You gotta get your hands dirty. Put on your big girl britches.
Rolling her shoulders, she tried to ease out the kinks. She might as well replace the torn plastic and seal the window opening because the adrenaline surging through her veins wasn’t going to allow her to catch a wink of sleep anyway.
She turned on a kerosene lamp in the sitting room, then jogged up the stairs to throw on some clothes. On the way back down the stairs, she could hear the rain pelting the roof.
“Being a business owner is highly overrated,” she muttered.
She grabbed an umbrella from the front hall, then put it back. She’d need two hands to carry the supplies from the shed in the back corner of the yard. She had noticed her Amish handyman, Sloppy Sam, putting them away this afternoon. The Amish people’s tendency to use nicknames to distinguish between the same names was both creative and charming. She doubted she would have had a nickname because her name wasn’t all that common among the Amish. Her mother’s love for flowers influenced the names of her daughters: Heather, Lily and Rose. But the girls never had to worry about their unique names while living in Quail Hollow because they were ripped away from their extended family as little girls.
Focusing on the task at hand, Heather plucked her rain slicker from a hook by the door and stuffed her arms into the cold sleeves. She psyched herself up to run across the wet yard, get the stuff she needed from the shed and then return to the house. It would take no time. No time at all.
She laughed at herself.
She really was a chicken.
But she figured she came about it honestly, after being terrorized by her husband for years.
Brian Fox was in jail, she reminded herself.
And she was safe in Quail Hollow.
She unlocked the back door, a useless lock considering there was a large hole in the back wall of the house.
She darted back into the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from the junk drawer and felt the weight of it in her hand.
What could happen to her in her own backyard?
* * *
Zach drove past the house with the address his supervisor had given him for Heather Miller, made a U-turn about a mile up, then returned, pulling in alongside an Amish buggy that had been abandoned across the street and partially obscured his truck. Based on his limited interaction with Heather Miller during Fox’s trial, he’d learned that she had gone off the grid for ten years, fearful for her life. But a year ago she resurfaced after Fox’s arrest for murdering Zach’s sister. Heather’s testimony had been instrumental in putting him away for a long time.
For that, Zach was grateful.
Then, nine months ago, according to his boss, this real estate transaction in Quail Hollow popped up with her name on it. Poor woman probably let her guard down after Fox was arrested, figuring she’d be safe.
She should have been safe.
Drawing in a deep breath, he knew he had a job to do. He had to push aside his personal demons. His personal need for revenge. His job was to get Miss Miller into protective custody until Fox was back rotting in jail.
Zach killed the headlights on his truck, then studied the property, wondering why Fox’s first wife had moved to a farm in Quail Hollow. From what he knew about her, she had grown up in Buffalo, New York. Not exactly the country. Maybe this was her way of starting over after Fox’s imprisonment.
The reason why Heather Miller was out here in the middle of nowhere wasn’t important right now. Securing her was.
Fox wasn’t likely to announce himself, and the darkness didn’t help. Zach thought he knew dark. But the blackness in the country during a rainstorm was unlike anything he had experienced. The wipers smearing the rain didn’t help the cause.
He grabbed his cell phone from the middle console of his truck and called his boss. The call took a few extra minutes to connect. “I’m sitting outside Heather Miller’s house. I’m going to check out the property before I try to make contact.”
“Okay. Once you have her secure, report back in. And, Zach...be careful. Local law enforcement reported that Fox may have stolen guns from a home near the correctional facility. There was a break-in shortly after his escape.”
Zach ended the call, then tucked the phone into the interior pocket of his jacket. He climbed out of the truck and closed the door with a quiet snick. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain was still coming down steadily. The temperature had plummeted with the storm, not unusual in September in Western New York.
Maybe that meant Fox was hunkered down somewhere and not stalking his ex-wife.
As long as Fox wasn’t hunkered down here.
Zach crossed the street, giving the house a wide berth, as if it might hold secrets. He noticed a light on in the kitchen that hadn’t been on when he pulled up.
He scanned the landscape. There were a lot of outbuildings for a person to hide in. He was making his way around the back of the house when he heard a rustling at the back door. Sliding his gun from its holster, he rushed toward the door, focusing intently on the sound.
A person—a woman, based on her petite stature—stood on the porch with a flashlight. What’s she doing? Before he had a chance to announce himself, she let out a scream that sent all his senses on high alert. The flashlight fell from her hands and landed with a thud on the porch. The light went dark. She spun around, pushed through the open door, then slammed it shut.
Zach froze in his tracks. He holstered his gun and lifted his hands in a nonthreatening gesture. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than he already had.
“I’m calling the police,” she yelled from inside the door. “Leave now!”
Zach reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his credentials. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker. We met last year at Brian Fox’s trial. I don’t think my ID will fit under the door. Go to a window. I’ll show you.”
“Go away.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come back during the day. That’s what a normal person would do.”
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t bother