LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes. I reached over to an end table for Kleenex and handed her a couple. She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, then turned her gaze on me. “Mary Beth, I’m so…damn…tired.” She broke down then, gulping back huge, loud sobs.

      I took her in my arms and patted her on the back. There but for the grace of God go I? That was something my mother had always said when reminding herself of how blessed she was, just to have food on the table and a light to read by. My mother had worked long hours as a waitress to support herself after my father died, and there wasn’t much to go around. When she died shortly after Pop, her loss left a hole in my heart that no one else has ever been able to fill.

      Taking the Kleenex, I dabbed at Lindy’s eyes and held her back from me a foot or so. “Why don’t you take a nice relaxing bath while I put some food on,” I said.

      “You don’t have to go to that trouble.”

      “Don’t be silly. I haven’t been shopping this week, but I’ll make us some grilled-cheese sandwiches. How’s that? Just like old times.”

      Her eyes said it all: This is not like old times.

      She came with me to my bedroom, though, and took off her clothes while I drew a warm bath, putting a scented bubble gel in it. When the water was ready, I went back into the bedroom, where I’d left a terry-cloth robe for her to change into.

      Lindy was sound asleep sideways on my bed, the turquoise satin spread wrapped around her like a cocoon. The robe I’d left for her was on the floor. A light breeze lifted the sheer white curtains at the French doors leading out to the deck.

      I sighed and drained the bathwater, then got a sheet and blanket from the hall closet and stretched out on the couch in the living room.

      I didn’t sleep well. Scenes that I’d long ago stuffed back into the far recesses of my mind, hoping never to see them again, kept flitting across my closed eyes.

      Roger Van Court.

      The bastard.

      But how much could I—or should I—tell Lindy?

      Lindy had knocked on my door at about one-thirty, and it was just after three, according to the clock over my mantel, when I woke, thinking I’d heard a sound on the deck. I sat up carefully and walked to the double French doors, which were similar to the ones in the bedroom. There was no moon, and it was hard to see if anyone was out there. Even harder to hear, over the ocean’s roar.

      I cussed myself out for having left everything but the front door unlocked. I’d turned off the lights in the living room, though, and I figured that was good. A long time ago, I’d learned in a self-defense class that it’s better to be in the dark in your house when an intruder is there. The intruder doesn’t know your house, but you do, which means you can navigate around it better than he.

      On the other hand, flashlights can be useful.

      Crouching close to the floor, I made it to the kitchen and was just reaching for my one flashlight in the utility drawer when I heard the doors leading from the deck to the bedroom slam open against the inside wall. Lindy screamed.

      I grabbed the flashlight and ran to the bedroom, shouting, “Get out! Get out of my house!”—also a technique I’d learned in a class. Take the intruder by surprise and get him off balance. Stupidly, however, I hadn’t remembered to stand to the side of the doorway, in case whoever was in there had a gun.

      That thought blew through my mind only an instant before bullets whistled by my ear. There was no loud pop, but more of a quiet thud, which told me the intruder must have a silencer on his gun. I dropped to the floor and set the flashlight as far away as my arm could reach. Then I flicked it on and pointed it in the direction of a large, dark figure by the bed. The figure was big enough to be a man, but he wore a ski mask and was dressed all in black. In the perimeter of the light, I saw that Lindy was leaning back against the headboard with my sheets pulled up to her neck, her eyes wide open and horrified.

      As another bullet zinged into the floor next to my flashlight, I wiggled around about eighty degrees and reached for the baseball bat I kept by my closet. The intruder’s eyes must have adjusted to the dark by now, however, because he was on me before I had a chance to grab it. An arm came around my neck, cutting off my breath, while a knee in my back kept my lower body from moving. I couldn’t kick, couldn’t fight back in any way. I started to see pinpoints in my eyes, little flashes of light that told me I’d soon be left in eternal darkness.

      Just when I thought I was checking out for good, though, the crushing weight of my attacker slumped on top of me. A few seconds later he hoisted himself to his feet. Cursing in guttural tones, he ran past me into the living room, kicking the flashlight aside.

      “Mary Beth!” Lindy yelled. “Are you all right?”

      I rose quickly and saw that she was holding the bat, and that was what had made the intruder fall. Little Lindy Lou had smacked the bastard with it.

      I held two fingers to my mouth. “Shh. I think he’s still out there.”

      “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Do you know who it is? Is it Roger?”

      I gave her a sharp glance in the dim light. “I didn’t see his face. Why do you think it was Roger?”

      She didn’t answer. At the sound of a loud crash in the living room, I said, “Never mind!”

      I grabbed her hand and the robe she’d never put on and pulled her, naked, out onto the deck and down the wooden steps to the beach.

      “Mary Beth, wait! Where are we going? I need my clothes!”

      I ignored her cries and pulled her along the sand—away from the usual floodlights that people who live here shine on the waves—and into the shadows.

      “Put this on,” I said. “Hurry!”

      While she shrugged into the dark blue robe, I kept tugging at her, wanting only to get as far away from the house as I could. I’ll admit I was panicked. Never in my life had I been shot at, nor had I ever had a break-in. I didn’t know where I was going, and was running on instinct, just trying to put distance between us and my house.

      Then it hit me—Patrick. Patrick Llewellen, who used to be one of my authors, lived only five houses down from mine. I dragged the half-clothed Lindy up along the sand toward the modern three-story house. She kept stumbling, and I just hoped she could make it up the stairs.

      Still pulling her, I raced up the stairs to Patrick’s deck, with its potted palms that were set off by colorful Malibu lights.

      Damn. I’d forgotten that he kept these lights on all night, every night, without fail. We should have gone around to the front.

      But I hadn’t had time to think clearly, and this would have to do. I began to pound on one of Patrick’s three sliding glass doors, then the other and the other, hoping I could rouse him from his sleep. He didn’t answer, though.

      God, what if he’d stayed overnight somewhere? What if we couldn’t get in?

      “Mary Beth, look!”

      I looked back to where Lindy pointed, and saw a dark figure running toward us on the beach. It was less than three houses away. I ran over to another door and pounded on it. “Patrick!” I yelled. “If you’re there, let me in! It’s Mary Beth!”

      The wait seemed endless, but finally a light came on inside. A drape was pulled back. “For God’s sake, Mary Beth, what are you doing here!” Patrick said as he slid open the door.

      “Just let us in. Hurry!”

      I didn’t waste time on the niceties, pushing by him with Lindy in tow. Once inside, I pulled the door closed and locked it, yanking the drapes shut.

      “Someone broke into my house,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “They shot at us. He’s right out there, Patrick! I need to call the sheriff.”

      Patrick wasn’t in pajamas, and didn’t look as if

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