“Hey, Trev, you’re—”
The bulb from the porch light rolled across the welcome mat.
“Did you take that bulb out—?” But Bex couldn’t finish her sentence. She felt the crushing weight of a hand on her chest, fisting over her shirt as she stumbled backward. The man from the funeral, from the phone call, forced his way into the house, slamming the door and whirling Bex around in one fell swoop. She heard the slam of the door at the same moment his hand clamped over her mouth.
“Don’t scream. Just listen to me, Beth Anne.”
Seventeen
Beth Anne.
Her whole body was simultaneously leaden and made of glass. Tears sprang into her eyes as the man clamped his other arm across her arms, tight enough across her chest that he made it hard for her to breathe. Her subconscious told her body to move. Squirm. Kick. Bite. But the command died in her paralyzed body.
“I’m not a bad guy,” the man whispered, his breath a mix of stale coffee and mint. “I’m one of the good guys. Promise you’ll listen and you won’t scream?”
Bex nodded, hating the feel of his lips so close to her ear, the way his breath broke hot and moist over her cheeks. He loosened his hand.
“You should know that my parents will be home soon. And my boyfriend.”
“That’s good,” the man said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Bex felt herself start to tremble as he released his grip on her. She knew she should run or try to remember some of the training she’d learned at the one self-defense class she had ever taken, but her mind and her body couldn’t seem to connect.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?”
The man turned her around to face him, speaking slowly. “Don’t you remember me?”
Bex studied the man’s face. She thought back on her father, the way she remembered him, before he disappeared and every image she saw was his mug shot on the news. She knew what he looked like—shouldn’t every daughter know her father?—even if she had to search a distant memory. Shouldn’t there be some innate connection that linked one of them to the other—genes or blood or—she felt her throat constrict—behavior? This man’s face had just a vague familiarity.
He was still gripping her firmly, now by the shoulders, when Bex felt her knees buckle. She went deadweight, straight to the ground in a flash, crouching low before lunging for the stairs. She vaulted forward, her fingertips digging into the carpet, her socks slipping as she tried to gain traction. There was distance between her and her attacker. The air sliced as he reached out to her, his fingertips grazing her neck and sending a fresh wave of gooseflesh all the way down her spine, icy jabs to her very soul.
There was nowhere to go but up the stairs so Bex shot upward, taking them two at a time. She knew she should be formulating a plan: scream, find a phone, call 911, but all of that seemed impossible. She couldn’t make her mouth move, couldn’t remember seeing a landline phone in the house—and what was the number for 911 on a cell phone? She had tunnel vision, seeing nothing but an endless staircase in front of her.
“Go! Go away!” Bex didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.
“Just listen to me!”
The stairs were a blur. She was crying, sweat and tears and snot running over her lips, her chin. She felt his grip on her ankle—a single tug—and she crashed facedown, her breath whacked out of her. The man pulled her down two carpeted steps, then stood over her, pinning her ribs with his calves, one hand between her shoulder blades, pushing down firmly.
“I’m a police officer.”
His admission did nothing to quell the tremors that went through her body, and her teeth clacked together. Somewhere behind her, she heard him fiddling with fabric and metal—maybe his belt buckle—and the tremors grew to quakes.
“Please,” she whispered, “please don’t.”
The man bent over and waved something in front of Bex, then pushed it into her hands.
Leather. A wallet. A badge.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” He spoke in a soothing voice as though she were a child.
“I’m Detective Lieutenant Daniel Schuster.”
He slowly removed his hand from Bex’s back, released the pressure on her ribs. She stayed facedown, still trembling, still terrified. Anyone could say they were a cop. Anyone could get a badge. But the name…it was vaguely familiar. A TV cop? Maybe he stole the name from a movie?
“Cops don’t barge into people’s houses,” Bex said slowly, her mouth so dry her lips stuck to her teeth.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls.”