A Fatal Romance. June Shaw

played the next message. “Sunny, it’s Eve. I need you!”

      My quivering finger pressed her number in Memory on my phone.

      “Where have you been?” she asked with a sob. “I’ve been calling.”

      “Planting flowers. Is it Mom?”

      “Somebody broke into my house!”

      “What? Are you okay?”

      “No. Come over.”

      “I’m there!” I raced toward my sister.

      Chapter 2

      Swallowing a song, I rushed beyond the plywood plastered across the sliding glass door leading to Eve’s art room. I sped across the patio to her locked kitchen door and shoved on the bell. She didn’t answer soon enough, so I beat on her door. It swung open.

      “Oh, Sunny!” She flew into my arms, her intense trembles matching mine.

      I gripped her as though my strength could protect her. “Are you hurt? I’ll get an ambulance.” I stepped back, scanning her head, arms, and torso.

      “I’m fine. I wasn’t home.”

      “What happened?”

      Shrugging off my attempt to inspect her more, she drew me inside and locked her door. She guided me to the den and pointed to her studio’s shut door. “They got in there.”

      “Did they take anything?”

      “It’s awful.” She shoved the door open to the room where she painted.

      My knees locked while I stared at massive red X’s spray painted across every one of her paintings now tossed like trash by the roadside.

      “And look at this.” She stepped behind a cluster of her ruined art. On the wall, painted words looked like dripping blood: WHERE IS WHAT’S HIS?

      “What does this mean? What do you have? Who does it belong to?”

      “I don’t have a thing.” She wore an annoyed expression.

      “But you must.” I stared at the words.

      “Sunny, I have no idea what that’s about. The police just left. They asked enough questions and didn’t seem to believe everything I told them, but I sure thought you would.”

      “I do.” I gripped her hands and shivered from the possibility of what could have happened to her.

      “Thank goodness I was gone.” She walked toward the shattered sliding door that 3/8 inch plywood shielded. “The police think the burglar saw me leaving for the gym and then broke in. The intruder searched this room but didn’t find what he was looking for and tried to reach the rest of the house. Look.” Deep scrapes sliced into wood around the door’s locking mechanism. The double-keyed lock she’d installed prevented that person from going any farther inside the house.

      Eve stared at the art, her face rumpled with sadness. “Those weren’t Rembrandts, but they were important to me.”

      “Maybe you can paint more.”

      She looked barely energetic enough for a shrug.

      “Who boarded the door?”

      She shuffled from her studio and tilted her head toward the left. “Jake Angelette brought over some of the wood he keeps in his garage and helped me nail it up.”

      “He just moved there. I could have done it with you.”

      “But I couldn’t reach you. And slamming a hammer against something felt good.”

      I understood why she hadn’t wanted to use her power tools. I nudged my chin toward the ruined paintings. “Which one of those men would the intruder be talking about?”

      She dropped to the sofa that released a soft whoosh. “I don’t know. The police asked what I had that belonged to a man. I don’t have a thing. They wanted to know why anybody would break in there and smash everything and write those words on my wall if it wasn’t true.”

      I sat with her. “What did you tell them?”

      She threw out her hands. “They were taking the word of a crook instead of me.”

      “What about all the men your paintings represented?”

      She shoved up to her feet, eyes wider. “You don’t think I told the police that?”

      “If you don’t, how will they have any clue as to what this is about?”

      She bent to look me in the eye. “Sunny, the meaning of those paintings is private. Art is a personal thing.”

      “One of the guys you dated must have left something here.”

      “Don’t you think I’ve checked? I went over every room. There’s nothing.”

      I walked back to her studio and stared at WHERE IS WHAT’S HIS? Gooseflesh erupted on my arms. “This is my fault.”

      “How could it possibly be your fault? Did you do it?”

      “Of course not, but maybe I did something stupid that caused someone to come and create this mess. I left a message on Daria Snelling’s answering machine saying I have something important of her husband’s. You know, those parts of him in my jacket. She probably came for what I have and did this.”

      Eve narrowed her eyes. “What else did you say in your message?”

      “I gave her my number.”

      “Then why would she break in here? All she’d have to do is pick up the phone and call you.”

      “I know. I didn’t give my address or my name, just said I was the tall redhead who sang. Maybe since she’d met you once, she thought I was you and found out where you live.”

      Eve tightened her lips. “I can’t believe she would do this.”

      I blew out a sigh, not reminding her of what I thought of the woman. “But I don’t understand why she hasn’t called yet.”

      My sister ambled to the den. “Maybe she didn’t get home from the church. Who knows how long it takes to do everything she needed to do there and afterward?”

      “Well, you can’t stay in this house. The burglar might return. Come stay with me.”

      Eyes stern, she shook her head. “The police suggested I stay someplace else, especially tonight, but nobody’s going to run me out of my house.” She was always the braver twin, the one who peeked into dark spaces first. “Anyway, he or she wouldn’t come back right away while police are checking so closely. And tonight I’m having company.” Her lips tilted up a little at the edges.

      Ah, a date. “Does your company carry a gun?”

      “Yes.”

      “Good. And will this be Dave, the exciting guy from your last painting?”

      “Don’t I wish? No, my second ex is in town and needs a place to stay.”

      My mind took a quick mental scroll. “Stan? You’re going to make him sleep in a guest bedroom, right?”

      “That’s none of your business.” She glanced at the frameless wall clock, large black numbers circling a small center. “Time for you to leave. I wanted you to know what happened.”

      “Call if you change your mind. Or if you need me.”

      She nodded. “Thanks. I don’t think I’ll need anyone else tonight. The police should be driving by my house often.”

      I hummed, afraid for her and figuring she could become intimate with that man, her second ex, which frightened me while I imagined myself wrapped up in a sexual interlude. I didn’t understand how she could enjoy romance so much but couldn’t