Trail Of Danger. Valerie Hansen

and he was knocking at the superintendent’s door.

      An apartment dweller across the hall stuck her graying head out of her own apartment and gave him a scathing look. “Hush. You’re spoiling my show. I was about to find out if Reginald really murdered his half brother.”

      It took Reed the space of several heartbeats to realize she was referring to the plot of a daytime soap opera. “Sorry. But I can’t get the tenant in 312 to come to the door and I’m worried. Do you know if she’s gone out?”

      “Not likely. She would have said. Does she know you?”

      “Yes.” Since he was in civilian clothes he flashed his badge wallet. “Officer Reed Branson. I was the one who helped her when she ran into trouble a couple of nights ago.”

      “Well, in that case, thank you.” She stepped out. “I’m Olga Petrovski.” A ring of keys jingled in her hand as she locked her door behind her. “That poor girl’s a basket case and nobody seems to care. She’s turning into a worse hermit than she was before. Doesn’t even have a cat for company. Can you imagine?” The woman led the way up the stairs, surprising Reed with her ease of movement in broken-down shoes that looked as if they were about to fall off.

      “You have keys? I thought Mr. Rosenbaum was the super.”

      “He is. But he’s in Jersey visiting his daughter. When he’s gone, I handle the building.” She squinted at Jessie. “That dog better be house-trained.”

      Reed paced her. “She is. Jessie’s a police officer, too, K-9 unit. We’re just not in uniform today.”

      They reached Abigail’s door. The woman knocked gently. “Abby, honey. It’s Olga. You need to open up so we can check on you. Please?” Casting a worried look at Reed, she spoke aside. “Like I said, I look after her and she never goes out these days. She has to be in there. You didn’t scare her, did you?”

      He shrugged. “Not purposely. She seemed to be doing pretty well when I saw her in the hospital right after the incident but she’s not returning my calls.” Glancing at the woman’s fisted hand he said, “I think you should use your key.”

      She did. The door swung open slowly. “We’re coming in, dear. It’s Olga and...”

      “Officer Reed Branson,” he called. “I brought K-9 Jessie, too. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

      Still there was no reply, no sign of the apartment’s occupant. Heavy drapes were pulled, shutting out most of the available daylight. The odor of pizza or something equally spicy lingered, although he couldn’t spot takeout containers. Abigail Jones’s home was spotless yet unwelcoming. She had created her own dungeon and locked herself away in it.

      Reed unclipped Jessie’s leash and quietly ordered, “Seek.”

      Seeming to sense the need for finesse, Jessie didn’t give voice to her quest. She merely snuffled along the carpet, clearly on the trail of something or someone. Reed came next, followed by the acting super.

      The K-9 entered a bedroom and circled the bed, then barked once at a closet door. Reed moved in. “Abigail? Ms. Jones? It’s the police. Your friend Olga from downstairs is here, too. She let us in.”

      He eased open the door.

      * * *

      Abigail pulled her knees closer. Instinct warred with the part of her mind that knew there was no real danger. She wanted to stand up and act more normal, but some inner power refused to let her move.

      A clicking pattern on the bare floor jarred her. She heard heavy breathing and her heart stopped for a moment before she realized the noise was a dog’s panting. A broad wet nose poked through a crack in the door. The bloodhound!

      Jessie panted against Abigail’s cheek, then slurped her ear with a tongue wide enough to cover it. That was enough stimulus to snap her out of her fugue.

      She focused first on the affectionate hound and rubbed her droopy, velvety ears, then forced herself to look up at Reed and Olga. “Hi.”

      “Hello,” Reed said.

      Olga followed with, “Are you all right, hon?”

      The ridiculousness of her location triggered Abigail’s wry wit despite feelings of unease and embarrassment. “Fine and dandy. I always sit on the floor of my closet. Doesn’t everybody?” When Reed offered his hand, she took it and let him pull her to her feet. “In other words, no.”

      “I get that,” he said. “How about coming out here with us? I’d like to have a talk.”

      Abigail managed to overcome lingering reluctance by keeping one hand atop the dog’s broad head. “I’m sorry I caused worry. It’s just... I don’t know. For some reason I couldn’t make myself come to the door when you buzzed and then knocked.”

      “How about my phone calls? I left messages. Did you get those?”

      “I—I must have. I probably didn’t recognize your number and I didn’t listen to anybody who had a deep voice.”

      “I’ll go make some coffee,” Olga offered. “You two have a seat and visit.”

      Abby chose the sofa, relieved as the police officer took an easy chair. Even in jeans and a polo shirt instead of his uniform, he had the bearing of someone in command. Someone to trust and lean on in times of trouble. Beyond the fact that she found him handsome, there was an unexplainable attraction. That, she attributed to his heroic actions. Why wouldn’t she admire somebody who had rescued her the way this K-9 cop had?

      To her delight, Jessie jumped onto the couch and plopped her enormous head in Abigail’s lap. It was a relief to rhythmically stroke the tan fur. “I think she likes me.”

      “No doubt. Are you feeling better now?”

      “Yes. Thanks. I don’t know what came over me.”

      Reed sobered. “Have you seen a doctor since you left the hospital? It’s normal to be uptight after a traumatic event, but it’s troubling to see you so fearful. I think you should seek professional help.”

      Her hand stilled. “You think I’m crazy?”

      “No, no.” Reed leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes we need to talk it all out, to try to make sense of whatever has happened to us. Posttraumatic stress can hit anybody. Surely you’ve seen it in some of the homeless kids you work with.”

      She nodded.

      “Then you know it’s not a sign of weakness, Ms. Jones, it’s a manifestation of your mind’s self-defense mechanism. We all get scared sometimes. It’s when we get stuck in that emotional state that it becomes a problem.”

      Abigail’s fingers slipped under Jessie’s collar and she wiggled them. Pure bliss filled the dog’s soulful brown eyes and she actually sighed in contentment. Searching for a smidgen of similar peace, Abigail asked, “So why don’t I remember my attackers?”

      “Short-term amnesia, I assume. A health care professional can tell you more.”

      “No way. I can’t afford to be judged mentally unstable. It might cost me my job. I won’t abandon those kids. It’s bad enough that I’ve stayed home as long as I have.”

      “Surely no one holds that against you.”

      Abigail huffed. “I do. I haven’t been able to push myself to set foot out of this apartment all weekend.”

      “The trip home from the hospital went all right?”

      “Yes, but I thought...”

      He leaned closer. “What? You thought what?”

      “You’re going to think I really have lost my mind. I thought I heard the voice of one of my attackers on my way home in a taxi.”

      “The