Unease rippled up her spine as she quickly glanced from side to side as if expecting to see someone there. Had Colleen returned to tell Rachel about yet another date that had gone wrong? When she saw no one, she jiggled the door handle. Locked. Again, she had the sense of dread. She turned and gripped the key between her fingers ready to jab. “Who’s there?”
No reply. Her heart beat loudly, drowning out the distant sound of cars on the street. The fear did not ease but logic took over and ticked off reasons why she was overreacting. Tired. Worried. Hungry.
Shrugging aside her qualms, she unlocked the door, opened it and disarmed her alarm. A heavy silence greeted her as she glanced inside her darkened house. Again nothing. And still fear outmaneuvered logic.
Rachel opened her cell. Just in case.
She flipped on the lights and found her office in disarray . . . as she’d left it. Every item was as it should be.
Jesus, Rachel, be careful. Think before you act.
As she turned to glance back toward the open door, she heard the swoosh of a thin object slicing through the air. She pivoted seconds before a stinging pain ripped through her shoulder.
Rachel screamed and backed into her office, trying to get a look at her attacker as she braced for a second blow. She fumbled with her phone and hit the 911 buttons as a figure wearing a mask and loose-fitting clothes moved from the shadows. A low-hanging hoodie obscured all facial features, but there was no missing the gloved hand gripping what looked like a tire iron.
Rachel hollered so loud her vocal cords strained to the point of snapping. From her cell she heard the 911 operator say, “What’s your emergency?”
“Get the hell away from me!” She cradled the phone to her ear. “Rachel Wainwright. I’m on First Street. I’m being attacked!” She screamed louder and backed up until she bumped into her desk. Her heart raced. Pain bolted through her body. She could barely process clear thoughts as a primal need to survive kicked up her adrenaline.
The attacker hesitated and then lunged wielding a long metal rod. She dodged, grabbed blindly at a bookshelf, snatched a book and tossed it at the attacker. The book hit the rod, deflecting the next blow.
Pain in her shoulder throbbed and her vision blurred. “Help!!! I’m at . . .” She rattled off her address again.
The attacker stopped, breathing hard, and gripping the rod in a black-gloved hand. And then without warning, turned, and ran.
Rachel held her breath, her fingers of her left hand balled into a fist as her other hand gripped her phone. She stood, weak-kneed, heart pounding as she collected her thoughts. As the seconds ticked in silence, the shock ebbed and the pain rolled over her in full force. It robbed her breath away and nearly buckled her knees.
In the distance, she heard sirens. “Lady, are you okay?” a woman shouted.
Gentle hands reached out to Rachel but she screamed and struck back. “Get away!”
“Lady, it’s okay,” the woman said. “The cops are on the way.”
Rachel hugged her injured arm and lowered herself to the floor as pain sliced her.
November 16
Sugar,
Saw you in the back of the bar while I was singing tonight. I miss you.
A.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, October 15, 11 PM
Deke Morgan arrived at the hospital emergency room, minutes past eleven to the sound of stretchers rattling, machines beeping, and conversations humming. Fluorescent lights highlighted a pallid uneasy feel that agitated his nerves with memories of the night Rick had been shot. He moved to the nurses’ station where a young woman with long dark hair swept into a ponytail frowned over a chart. She glanced up, her gaze sharp and direct. “Can I help you?”
He pushed back his coat so that she could see his badge. “I’m looking for Rachel Wainwright.”
She glanced at her computer and punched buttons. “Room six.”
He let the coat drop over his badge. “Can you tell me how she’s doing?”
“She’s back from X-ray and we’re waiting on the results. You can go see her if you like.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” He found his way to the curtained door. On the other side he heard a woman’s irritated voice cursing. He knocked on the door frame and pushed through to find Rachel standing by the bed, dressed in a hospital gown. She leaned heavily on the bed as she stared at an overhead television screen featuring Margaret Miller.
The real killer has been caught. Rachel Wainwright is perverting justice. Lord, it’s my momma’s birthday and that attorney is tearing into old wounds that never healed.
The camera angled back to the reporter, Susan Martinez. Rachel cut her off midsentence with the click of a remote.
Her muscles contracted as if guarding against any movement that would trigger pain. In the full billowy gown, she looked small and petite. Her left arm was in a sling and already he could see black-and-blue marks marring the pale skin of her shoulder. And with no makeup, Margaret Miller’s bruise shadowed her jawline.
Vulnerable came to mind. Afraid. Despite his best efforts, his pity flickered.
A glance at him and her eyes darkened with embarrassment, anger, and frustration. She straightened but the move cost her some pain. “Detective.”
He lingered by the door saddened to see her so rattled. He’d gotten the call forty-five minutes ago from the dispatcher who had reported her 911 call. She’d barely been conscious, her back pressed to a wall, the phone gripped in her hand. Several onlookers had gathered around her house but there’d been no sign of the attacker. “Not one of your better nights.”
She clutched the folds of her gown. “I’ve had better.”
He admired the spunk. “From what the responding officer said, three inches to the right and the attacker would have struck you in the head. Do you know who hit you?”
She shook her head, lifting her chin a fraction. “No. I saw loose dark jeans and a mask and hoodie covering his head. But I didn’t see a face.”
“Did he speak to you? Maybe the sound of his voice.”
“No. He didn’t. He came out of nowhere and struck. I twisted out of the way, for the most part, at the last second. And then I started screaming like a madwoman.”
“That’s likely what saved your life. Too many victims don’t stand up to their attacker and die without uttering a sound.”
She pushed fingers that trembled slightly through her short hair. “Half of Nashville heard me.”
“That’s what the witnesses said. They heard you scream and several called nine-one-one.”
She nodded as if the weight of what happened settled deeper onto her shoulders. “I was lucky.”
“Have you received any menacing letters, emails or texts? Has anyone threatened you?”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Yeah, there have been emails. There are several that don’t appreciate what I’m doing. And the news station received angry responses to the piece aired about the vigil.”
“Who told you that?”
“Susan Martinez. I saw her yesterday.” She snorted.
“She told me she’d not cover this case again until the DNA came back. That was a load of BS.”