The Marine's Last Defence. Angi Morgan

wasn’t searching for her.

      Even if the police weren’t looking, it didn’t mean she could see the handsome detective. That would be thumbing her nose at the good fortune she’d had for the past six months. Sooner or later her luck would run out.

      Each day she hoped her family would forgive her when she finally proved her innocence and could go home again. There were three more names to check out and then she’d have to turn herself in to the police. Or use the stolen money to hire a detective to clear her name.

      She couldn’t do that. The money was evidence. If she’d used it, she could have gone anywhere, hired that dang detective months ago, slept in a nice hotel instead of those shelters the first week. Other than the three hundred dollars she’d been forced to use, over ninety thousand dollars—in very large bills—was now hidden in the liner of her toiletry bag. She’d only grabbed one bundle and hidden the rest with her uncle, who’d helped her leave Amarillo.

      Sabrina peeled off her gloves and found her keys in her jacket pocket. She pushed the handle of the suitcase down. The huge monster was wearing out along the bottom faster than the first one she’d bought secondhand. Obtaining another needed to be added to her list of things to get done soon.

      Think about that in two weeks. Maybe living out of a suitcase won’t be necessary then.

      Stomping her wet tennis shoes on the welcome mat, she wished again she had her favorite snow boots. She tried to get as much snow off them as possible before entering Brenda Ellen’s immaculate domain and just pulled them off instead, along with her wet socks. She turned her key in the kitchen door, dropping the set into her pocket.

      Backing inside, she lifted her case over the threshold, bracing for Dallas’s welcome. The big, rambunctious pup could knock her down when she caught her off guard.

      No Dallas.

      She whistled while shrugging out of her coat and dropping it along with her shoes on top of the suitcase. She clapped. Still no sound of nails clicking on the hardwood floors.

      “Dallas,” she called. “Mrs. Richardson? Brenda Ellen?”

      Had her trip been delayed again because of the snow? Dirty dishes sat on the counter and stove. Weird, because Brenda Ellen Richardson practically ate over the sink when she bothered to eat at home. The loaf of bread was open. Grease in a frying pan where eggs had been cooked. Blood near a block of cheese on the counter.

      “Oh, God.”

      Was that Brenda Ellen’s blood? Or had someone else made themselves at home?

      Brenda Ellen didn’t eat eggs and never fried anything. Had they found her? No! No! No! Don’t panic. Maybe Brenda Ellen had forgotten to text her that the flight had been delayed. Maybe she’d had company overnight. That potential scene was embarrassing but held much less panic.

      But where was Dallas? Even if she was locked out of Brenda Ellen’s bedroom, she’d be greeting any visitor at the door.

      Something was wrong. Brenda Ellen was a businesswoman and wouldn’t have forgotten to cancel her dog sitter. Should she leave? Yes, turn and run this minute! Grabbing the suitcase and running down the sidewalk was the safest thing to do.

      And then what? She could go...where?

      If someone was here, they’d heard her come inside, heard her whistle for Dallas. They’d follow her down the street. What if they were waiting for her to search the house? What if Brenda Ellen was tied up or...or...worse?

      I’m so tired of being afraid, she said to herself.

      It was time to stop being afraid and confront the fear. Take action. Do something proactive and not just run. Dial 911 and then leave.

      Her cell was packed. Fortunately, or it would have been in plain sight for Detective Jake Craig. Then get to the landline in the living room, and get help for Brenda Ellen, then leave. That was a plan. She’d taken self-defense classes. She could get to the phone on Brenda Ellen’s desk.

      As quietly as possible, she rolled open the drawer that contained the meat mallet. The knives were tempting, but much bigger than the scalpel she’d stabbed Griffin with.

      Attempting to get to Brenda Ellen’s phone was risky. But she couldn’t leave without trying, without knowing if her employer needed help. If Brenda Ellen was in trouble, it was Sabrina’s fault and she had to do whatever she could.

      Mallet in hand, she knelt at the doorway, trying to see if anyone waited in the living area. Surely, if anyone were there, they would have already come to see who had whistled and clapped. There wasn’t anything to be frightened of. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop shaking or thinking about the different possibilities. Overreacting had become the new normal for her.

      “There’s nothing there.” Sabrina stood and shook the tension from her arms but kept the mallet in her hands.

      She rounded the corner, prepared to whack any intruder or at least throw the mallet at their head. Nothing. The pillows were out of place, the cushions were crooked and the glass top on the coffee table was shattered.

      It might look like an accident had happened, but she knew Brenda Ellen. The woman had given her a five-minute lecture when she hadn’t vacuumed one morning.

      She froze. Had that been wood creaking? Barely a sound from the carpeted stairs, but she recognized it. Being in the house alone with Dallas, she’d heard it many nights as the pup had gone downstairs to bark and howl. She swallowed hard, the simple silent sound reverberating in her head like a shout. She held her breath.

      Was it the man from the clinic? The one who looked like he enjoyed killing? His horrible smile haunted her nightmares where she was endlessly being chased.

      Whoever was behind her on the stairs knew she was in the house. She couldn’t make it across the room to the phone. She couldn’t unbolt the front door without her keys, which were in the pocket of her coat. Out the kitchen door was her only choice.

      So she ran. She hated turning her back, afraid the crazy-smile guy would shoot her between the shoulders. Unlike her dreams, where she ran all night, just out of his reach.

      He heard her. She could hear his heavy, fast-paced steps. The lamp from the sofa table toppled to the floor behind her as she skidded around the corner of the kitchen.

      Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

      She slid to a stop, yanked the door open as far as her suitcase allowed and jumped the two steps to the driveway.

      “Hi, Bree, looking for Dallas?”

      It took a couple of seconds to shove her heart from her throat to her chest again. It was just a neighborhood kid she’d met plenty of times while walking the dogs. “Get out of here, Joey.”

      “It’s okay. This cop found her at the lake. I guess she got out after Mrs. Richardson left.”

      “Cop? Where?” She grabbed his bike handles and pulled. “Come on, Joey. I said to get going.”

      “What’s wrong?” he asked, dragging his feet through the drifting snow.

      The door swung open. She caught a glimpse of a barrel, a man in a mask. “Get down!”

      Sabrina jerked the handle bars sideways, knocking Joey to the ground and jumping on top of him. A beige blur pulled her sweater and shoved her facedown into the snow next to the street.

      “Hold it,” a deep voice boomed from above her.

      “He’s...he’s in the house with a gun,” she explained, spitting the snow from her mouth.

      “You okay, kid?” the voice asked. Nothing like the voice from the clinic. The tones floating to her ears were deep and rich with a natural Texas twang she recognized.

      Jake Craig.

      She watched Joey’s head bob up and down and then an excited gleam dart into his eyes at the thought of danger. Give it up. It ain’t