There. She might not have any hot water. Or a front door she could open. Or reliable electricity. But she had managed to outsmart one wily mouse.
Surely, that was a sign her life was on the upswing. If not, she had a flashlight, a hand fan and plenty of cookies to tide her over.
Luke Dole had been pacing the carpet in his daughter’s bedroom for the past twenty minutes, mashing an even path in the beige plush. He ran through a mental list of places where Emily could be for the hundredth time and got nowhere. Nothing.
She’d taken off right after school. When the principal called five minutes later to announce Emily’s latest act of defiance and impending suspension—only one week into the new school year—Luke knew why his daughter had disappeared.
Now it was ten-thirty, an hour and a half past Emily’s curfew, and he had no idea where she could be. He’d already gone out looking once and come up empty. He’d returned home, hoping to find her here, but her bed was still made, her sandals missing from their place by the door. Images of serial killers, rave parties and fiery car wrecks ran through his mind like a horror slide show.
“Reminds me of when I used to wait up for you and your brother.”
His father’s voice made Luke jump. He spun around and saw John Dole standing in the doorway, wrapped in a navy terry-cloth robe, holding a glass of water.
“Dad! I didn’t hear you get up.”
“Well, I heard you. Sounds like a herd of elephants in here.” John crossed and took a seat on the edge of Emily’s bed. The worn Barbie comforter seemed too girlie for tall, broad John. “I’m sure she’s fine, Luke. Just testing some boundaries.”
“Yeah, well those boundaries are an hour and a half late. Where could she be?” He began pacing again. “I should call the police.”
“Mercy isn’t L.A., Luke. Don’t you remember what it was like to be twelve, going on thirty? You and Mark were a handful then. Always taking off, building forts, chasing frogs, cornering poor Miss Tanner’s dog and painting it purple.”
Luke laughed. “I think Miss Tanner’s still mad at us for that one.”
“That dog of hers was a pain in the neck anyway. Barked at gnats, for God’s sake.” John sipped, then placed the glass on Emily’s white wicker nightstand. When she’d been seven, Emily had loved this bedroom set, right down to the Barbie-and-Ken pillowcase. But now, it seemed to be one more thing for them to argue about. Luke hated that she was outgrowing the memories he and Mary had worked so hard to build.
His father rose, put a hand on his shoulder. “Em’s going through a tough time. Losing her mother just when she needed her most.”
“I lost Mary, too, Dad. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be two parents at once.” He’d carried this load alone for almost two years, and he’d dropped it more than once. “I keep screwing it up.”
“You and she have a few things to work out, that’s all. It’ll be all right.”
Luke had heard those words so many times. From the psychiatrist he’d hired for Emily after Mary died, from the teachers and principals who had thrown up their hands after unsuccessfully trying to reverse Emily’s failing grades and continued rule breaking, from the neighbors who thought they were doing the right thing by bringing over hot dishes and well-worn platitudes. He’d moved back home, hoping his parents could help him break through the brick wall she’d put up.
Maybe he wasn’t the right man to raise Emily. Maybe another man would have—
That thought damn near broke his heart in two. He hung his head. Thick emotion clogged his throat, strangling his vocal cords. “When, Dad? When is it ever going to be right again?”
John’s eyes shimmered. “I wish I had that answer for you.” He gripped Luke tight for a moment. “Go find Emily. Talk to her. I’ve never seen two people who needed each other more.”
How true that was. Each of them was all the other had left. And yet, they kept pushing each other away as if they were fighting over the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
Luke gave his father a quick, one-armed hug, then headed for the door.
Once again, he drove up and down the streets of Mercy. It was a small town, barely more than six thousand in population, so there wasn’t much area to cover. For half an hour, he saw nothing but the occasional loose dog. And then, on the corner of Lincoln and Lewis, he saw a familiar figure with fuchsia hair and a bright orange T-shirt climbing in the window of a house.
Claire Richards used to live there, until she’d married Luke’s twin brother, Mark, and they’d moved to California. Renters were few and far between in Mercy, and the home had fallen into disrepair and become a teen party hangout over the last twelve months. His mother had mentioned something about a new person moving in, but Luke had barely caught the comment and didn’t remember if his mother had said there was a tenant already in residence or soon to be.
The house was dark, looked empty. Emily would see it as the perfect hiding place.
Luke parked his Chevy in front of the neighbor’s house. He snuck down the drive, around to the back of Claire’s, then hoisted himself into the window Emily had disappeared through.
Anita bolted upright in bed. The sound she’d heard coming from the next bedroom—the one she’d started setting up as an office—hadn’t come from a mouse. Unless the mouse had invited a few million friends over for a canned-ham-and-marmalade party.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Images of her certain demise flashed through her mind: the coroner shaking his head at the woefully unprepared corpse, the headline decrying the loss of the newest Mercy resident and all that wasted food from the Welcoming Committee.
Anita took a deep breath, clearing her head.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. In the half light of the moon through the curtainless windows she didn’t see anything remotely lethal, unless she counted one pair of red spike heels.
Then, in the corner, a box labeled “Kitchen,” left there when she got too tired to move anything else. Eureka. She prayed for a rolling pin, maybe even that cast-iron waffle maker she’d never used but felt compelled to tote across the country, in case she ever had a hankering for homemade Belgians.
Anita crept out of bed, snuck over to the box and pried open the cardboard lid. From the other room, a scuffling sound. She held her breath, praying Jack the Ripper wasn’t about to lunge through the door and show off his superior surgical skills.
She pulled out the first thing her hand lighted on. A Teflon skillet. Twelve inches of coated aluminum, with a wooden handle. Not a heck of a lot more lethal than the stilettos, but easier to wield and requiring far less accuracy.
Anita got to her feet, steadying her stomach with her hand when a wave of nausea threatened to undo her. She crept out of her room, down the short hall and toward the next doorway. Like a SWAT-team leader, she plastered herself to the wall, peeking around the corner, pan at the ready above her head.
At first, she didn’t see much but then, a flash at the window.
A man was on the window ledge, heaving himself into the room. A large man. Son of Sam size. Anita slithered around the doorway, pressed herself to the wall and crept barefoot around the perimeter of the room.
He didn’t notice her. He was too busy huffing and puffing his way through a B and E. He paused, his hands propped on the sill. Anita reached him and before she could think about what she was about to do, she raised the pan, then swung it down as hard as she could. Her muscles—or maybe her conscience—flickered at the last second, turning her crushing blow into nothing more than a cornflake-crunching glance.
The