That meant getting rid of the vandalism before Eileen got home.
She touched a finger to the dry red paint. Not even tacky. Whoever had vandalized the house had done it soon after Catherine and Eileen had left for the hospital. Some punk kid. She was sure that was what the sheriff would say if she called.
She wouldn’t.
She’d put her grandmother through enough already. She wouldn’t bring her home to vandalism or to police poring over the property. She’d cover the paint and keep what had happened locked safely away with all the other things she couldn’t share.
The sun blazed from the blue summer sky, the breezeless air hot and arid. Sweat trickled down her temple and neck as she poured dove-gray paint into a pan. Whoosh. One letter gone. Swish. Another disappeared. She should have felt satisfaction, but she felt nothing. Not anger. Not irritation. Not dismay, disgust, horror.
Nothing.
She covered another letter and wiped sweat from her upper lip, surveying the fresh paint. Not even a shadow of red peeked out from under the gray. Perfect. Eileen would never know what had happened, and that was the only thing Catherine cared about. She dipped the roller in gray again, sweeping it over the E and R, the silence of the old farmstead only broken by the swishing of paint on wood. Nothing moved. Not the tall grass and weeds that pressed up against the perimeter of the yard. Not the leaves on the trees.
The stillness ate at Catherine as she worked, nudging at the back of her mind. Four years in the state prison had insulated her from the world, but not from people and life. There had been little silence in her cell block and even less time alone. Here, in the small town where she’d grown up, she seemed to always be alone and silent. Even when she was in a crowd. Even when Eileen was close by.
She grabbed a fresh roller, poured white paint into a clean pan and slicked it over the red letters on the porch. Almost done. There’d be plenty of time for the floor to dry before she picked Eileen up from chemotherapy.
Something rustled to her left, the tall weeds that edged the property swaying. No breeze to blow them, but they moved again, twitching to the left and right as she watched.
“Who’s there?” she asked, sure a bird would fly out of the overgrowth. Instead, soft laughter drifted from the weeds, the sound chilling her blood.
“I said, ‘who’s there?’”
“Murderer!” The taunt whispered out, and Catherine stiffened.
She’d been out of prison for two months, and in that time, vandals had broken a window, slashed her car tires and egged the house. The sheriff had been out three times, but he hadn’t been able to track down the perpetrators. Kids with too much time on their hands. That’s what he’d said, and Catherine had believed him, because she hadn’t wanted to believe an adult was trying to chase her out of town.
But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible. Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.
Just once, her rational self said.
Just you.
The weeds rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.
A kid?
Catherine didn’t think so, and she tensed, setting the paint roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”
“Go home,” he mocked, chuckling softly.
“I’m going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the front door.
“I don’t think so,” he responded and loped toward her.
She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over her mouth.
“Let’s go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway, and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow into his ribs. Prison hadn’t taught her much, but it had taught her how to fight.
He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he stumbled back.
She didn’t wait. Didn’t try to fight more. Just jumped off the porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road that connected the homestead to its nearest neighbor.
Please, please.
Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.
Please.
She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she’d be at the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said spent more time away than home.
Please, let him be home.
Her breath panted out, the old broken mailbox that marked the beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the house from view just beyond it.
Close.
She was so close.
God is smiling down on you, my sweet girl.
The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn’t sure it had ever been hers.
And then she was yanked back with so much force she flew. Off balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As if rescue might be just a moment away.
His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness dancing at the edge of her vision.
Please, please, help me.
The prayer danced, too, slipping into her muddled thoughts, breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She’d clung to her faith through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope, her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.
If she could care again, would God save her?
Please!
Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.
On the ground, his hands around her neck, his breath fanning her cheek.
“How’s it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.
She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron hold.
No air.
No breath.
Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into hers.
Please!
She let go of his wrists, dug her thumbs into his eyes, air filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.
One more scream.
Another.
And his hands tightened on her throat again.
* * *
A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne’s first day of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it’s-summer-and-we’re-letting-loose scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his hair stand on end.
Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old farmhouse and onto the dirt road.
He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.
The hot summer day was silent again.