Emma’s stomach twisted and coiled with nausea. “What does he want?”
Sara took another step.
“I won’t leave you.”
Sara shot one determined glance over her shoulder. “Your job is to protect Henry. Mine is to protect you. Now, hide.”
Terror gripped Emma, and she snagged the cordless phone handset from the wall, immediately dialing the local police department. She ducked around the edge of the living room wall, hiding just out of sight in the long hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Come on,” she urged, impatient for the ringing call to connect.
The dead bolt snicked back in the next room. The door swung open on squeaky hinges.
“I’ve already called the police,” Sara said coldly in lieu of a proper greeting.
A choking gasp cracked through the silence a moment later.
Emma sucked air. Horrific images of what could have caused such a sound raced through her head. There were no more words in the silent home. Just the low gurgling of someone desperate for air. Emma prayed the sound wasn’t coming from Sara.
A tinny voice broke through the phone speaker at her ear. “Knox Ridge Police Department.”
Emma inched toward the end of the hall, ignoring the woman on the line. Desperate to know her sister was okay, she counted silently to three, then peeked her head around the corner, chest tight with fear.
A man in head-to-toe black, a ski mask and leather gloves had one giant hand wrapped around Sara’s throat while she clawed uselessly at his fingers. Her eyes were wild, bulging, her mouth gaping for air. The man raised a pistol in his free hand.
Hot tears rushed over Emma’s eyes. She had the police on the phone, but couldn’t speak. If the man heard her, he might use his gun on Sara. Or on Henry.
Hide. Sara’s desperate voice echoed in Emma’s addled mind. Protect Henry.
“Knox Ridge Police Department,” the woman on the phone repeated. Her small voice suddenly sounded like a booming gong.
Henry bunched his face and opened his quivering lips, a scream poised to break.
Emma took one last too-risky look into the living room, needing assurance her sister hadn’t been choked to death while she’d stood helplessly by and deliberated over what to do next.
The man tossed Sara onto the couch like a rag doll and climbed on top of her in a flash. He lowered his face to hers and growled through the mask. “Who did you tell?” He pinned her hands overhead and pressed them hard into the cushions until they vanished from sight.
“No one.” Sara choked out the words, still coughing and gasping for air. “No one. I have no one to tell. I swear it.”
Henry released a warning cry, and the man’s face snapped in Emma’s direction.
Emma rocked back on socked feet and took off like a bullet down the hallway. Henry bounced and jostled in her arms as she pressed him to her chest and gripped the phone between one ear and shoulder. She slid and scooted as adrenaline forced her legs faster than her feet could find purchase on the hard, slick floors.
“What was that?” the man asked, footsteps already falling through the living room, nearing the hall at a clip.
“Cat!” Sara yelped. “It was only the cat.”
Emma snatched their mean old barn cat off the hallway windowsill on her way to the master bedroom, and she threw him into the space behind her. He’d surely bite her the next time he saw her, but she’d gladly choose to face off with him rather than whoever was attempting to murder Sara.
The cat screeched and hissed, claws skidding over the wide wooden planks as he slid in the direction of Sara and the masked lunatic.
The footfalls stopped.
Emma barreled into her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. Her heart hammered and her chest ached. She climbed through the clothes racks, over boxes and blankets and shoes, then curled herself around her son and shushed him out of a fast-approaching fit.
Several wild heartbeats later, the footfalls retreated back toward her sister, who she hoped had had the good sense to run.
“Who did you tell?” the man’s voice came again, impossibly angrier.
Emma’s heart fell. Sara hadn’t run.
“Ma’am?” the voice asked through the phone. “Miss Hart? Caller ID shows this as the Hart residence?”
What was happening? Why was it happening?
“Miss Hart,” the woman persisted.
“Yes,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. She cringed with each terrorizing demand of the intruder in the next room. Who did you tell?
Sara screamed.
Her gut-wrenching wail ripped through the rafters, the drywall and Emma’s soul. “Someone is hurting my sister,” she whispered. “Please, hurry.”
Emma’s gaze darted through the dark space. If only she hadn’t moved her daddy’s rifles into a gun safe after Henry was born. If only Henry was sleeping in his crib, and she could trust him not to scream. If only she could help Sara.
A deafening crack stopped her ragged thoughts. The sound of skin on skin. A brain-jarring slap. Or jaw-breaking punch. Every sound was amplified in the impossibly still home. Emma heard the muted thud of a collapsing body.
Then no more screaming. No more demanding growls. Just silence.
Outside, the rumble of an engine drew hope to Emma’s heart. The psychopath was leaving. Whatever condition Sara was in, at least she hadn’t been shot, and the police were on the way. Sara would be okay, and she would tell them everything so the son of a gun who did this to her would pay.
Emma crept from her hiding spot and raced to her bedroom window, confirming the empty driveway before racing back down the hallway, heart in her throat and preparing to provide triage while they awaited the first responders.
On a deep intake of air, she shored her nerve at the end of the hallway, tucked Henry tight to her chest and dared a peek into her living room.
But all that remained of her sister was a thick smear of blood on the polished wooden floor.
Sawyer Lance, former Army Ranger and cofounder of Fortress Security, reached reluctantly for the ringing phone. It was late and he was tired. Protecting civilians was harder than he’d predicted when opening the private sector security firm. Far more challenging than similar work overseas where he could at least shoot the bad guys. He tossed another pair of aspirin into his mouth before blindly raising the phone from his desk.
What would it be this time? Another punk ex-husband or boyfriend bullying the woman he claimed to love? An unhinged stranger stalking a woman who didn’t know he existed beyond the fact he harassed her anonymously with creepy unwanted gifts and the occasional break-in? “Fortress,” he answered, his voice little better than a bark. “This is Sawyer Lance.”
The long pause that followed was nearly cause for him to hang up. Instead, he rubbed his forehead, knowing sometimes frightened folks needed time to gather their thoughts.
“Fortress,” he repeated, becoming alert at the sound of soft breaths through the line. His muscles tensed. “If this is an emergency, you need to call 911 and get yourself to safety. Call me after. Police first.”
He waited.
The quiet breathing continued.