Living with the Dead

ROBYN



Robyn was in the bathroom holding a cold cloth to her face, listening to Judd grinding more coffee beans, when she heard a bang. And the grinder stopped.

She froze, not thinking, not moving, heart slamming against her chest. It couldn’t be what she thought. She had guns on the brain and her nerves were shot. She opened her mouth to call for Judd, but she couldn’t get his name out.

She crept to the door and opened it just enough to hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Judd had been in bare feet.

A loud crack, like a door smacked open.

“Damn it,” someone muttered. A male voice, young, and definitely not Judd.

She backed away from the door, clicking off the light. The footsteps and mutters continued. He was searching the house.

As she retreated toward the shower, she scoured the counter for a weapon. Not much to choose from. She grabbed an aerosol can of deodorant and a heavy silver toothbrush holder.

She set one foot in the tub and stopped. Hiding behind a shower curtain? Was she nuts?

Robyn crept to the door. Across the hall she could see a bedroom. There had to be better hiding places in there. She took one step . . . and the footsteps moved toward the hall. She darted behind the door and shrank back, the aerosol can lifted to eye level, her finger on the trigger.

The footsteps continued past the door, then squeaked as they turned into the spare room where she’d left her dress. Robyn slipped out. As she tracked the footsteps to make sure they stayed in the spare room, she hurried toward the kitchen. The front door was on the other side of it. Get to the end of the hall, make a left—

The footsteps squeaked again, coming back toward the hall. Robyn dashed through the nearest doorway. The living room. She spun, looking for a place to hide. As she turned, she saw through the hall to the kitchen. Judd’s bare feet lay on the floor, sticking out from behind the island.

The footsteps kept coming.

Robyn tore her gaze from Judd. As she turned, she saw patio doors across the room. When she yanked the handle, the door hit the stopper with a bump-bump that sounded as loud as a crash.

The footsteps stopped.

Robyn dropped to a crouch. Hands shaking, she tugged out the stopper. As she straightened, she noticed a pair of old sneakers by the door. She scooped them up with one hand as the other pulled open the door as slowly as she could. The footsteps had started again, slow, measured, as the searcher listened for another sound.

Robyn almost got the door open far enough to squeeze through, then it let out a piercing squeal. She yanked it open and stumbled out. Running footsteps sounded behind her. She lurched across the deck and nearly fell off, missing the edge in the dark. As she jumped down, the door squealed again. She turned to see a slender figure silhouetted in the dark doorway, his hand going up.

Robyn dove as the gun fired. She hit the damp grass and skidded, almost dropping the shoes. The figure raised the gun again. She rolled as the second shot sounded. Lights flicked on in the house behind Judd’s. The figure backed into the house.

Robyn pushed to her feet and ran.



THE PLAN, like all her plans that night, had seemed so simple. Get away from the gun-toting killer. Take cover. Call 911 to get help for Judd. Then go back, find Detective Findlay and turn herself in. But again, the universe conspired against her.

Judd’s attacker had only retreated into the house for a moment. Then he’d come after her. He hadn’t tried shooting her in the open again, but he’d chased and he’d chased until finally Robyn managed to fake him out by hiding and letting him run past.

Then she’d put on Judd’s shoes, lacing them tight so they’d stay on, and found a safe spot to catch her breath and make that phone call. But her pocket was empty. Her cell phone must have fallen out. And it was at that point, as she told herself Detective Findlay would be at Judd’s house by now anyway, that it hit her.

Robyn had just fled another crime scene.