Stalked. Beverly Long

was how the two women had met. “No problem,” Hope said easily. She’d never be able to laugh about her own situation, but she wasn’t so jaded that she couldn’t feel good about these two old people sneaking around, as much as one could sneak when using a walker, acting like teenagers again.

      “Think we’ll be busy tonight?” Sasha asked, attempting to change the conversation.

      It was a rhetorical question. No one could ever predict what kind of night it would be. The hotline had been quiet for a few nights so maybe it would heat up. They’d had a brand-new client and her two children two nights ago. She’d had two black eyes, a chipped tooth and a broken finger. Her young children had hung on to her the entire night, their little hands tightly clenching her cheap cotton T-shirt. Fortunately, they hadn’t had a mark on them, but they’d evidently watched what their father had done to their mom.

      Finally, Hope had gotten the four-year-old girl and five-year-old boy to follow her into the old kitchen. She’d convinced them to help her make some cupcakes so that Sasha and Jackie could work with the mom and get her started on rebuilding her life, one that didn’t include regularly getting the hell beat out of her.

      Sasha pulled her car into the parking lot of the nondescript one-story building. From the outside, it looked quiet enough. Always did. There were no neon signs blinking in these windows. Just a small sign on the door, one you had to be close to in order to read.

      Gloria’s Path. Named for the founder, Gloria Portland, who’d scraped together grants and private donations to open the ten-bed shelter eight years earlier. Now Gloria worked mostly days, leaving the night work to trusted volunteers and just a few paid staff.

      Hope opened her door and got out. As she did, something fluttered to the ground. She bent and picked it up. She leaned into the car, using the interior light to see what it was.

      It was a strip of vertical photos of Sasha and a man. “What’s this?” she asked, holding the strip up so that Sasha, who was already out of the car, could see.

      The woman waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. I went to my cousin’s wedding last week and they had a photo booth there with a bunch of props.”

      When she didn’t mention the man, Hope didn’t pry. She knew that Sasha had been married and divorced twice. Maybe she was dipping her toes in the dating water again.

      Hope gently tossed the strip back onto the passenger seat. “The purple glasses were a nice touch.”

      “It was that or a felt Santa hat.”

      The two women walked down the dark sidewalk and Sasha used her key to unlock the back door. The interior was softly lit, in deference to the late hour. But Hope knew that there would be activity. There always was. Previously abused women didn’t sleep well. They were worried about their futures, their children’s futures. And sometimes it was in the middle of the night that they most needed a supportive shoulder to lean upon.

      Hope headed for the small kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. There was a woman sitting at the table. She had a half-empty cup sitting in front of her and she was playing with her smartphone.

      Serena was a repeat client, first arriving almost six months ago, shortly after Hope had started her volunteer work. Serena had spent a few days at Gloria’s Path, only to return home after her husband had pleaded with her and pledged that he’d do better. When she’d shown up almost two weeks ago, her face bruised and cut, she’d said that she was finally ready to leave her husband, because better still regularly included a sharp uppercut to the jaw.

      She had no children and no other family in the immediate area. By the sounds of it, all she had was a very angry spouse who couldn’t accept that his wife of three years had finally had enough.

      “I was hoping you’d have a minute to talk,” Serena said, suggesting that she’d been waiting for Hope’s arrival. “I think I finally have a plan.”

      Hope smiled. Her night had begun.

      * * *

      MACK SAT IN his quiet car, debating what to do next. The second after he’d watched Hope get into the car, he’d been racing back to the house to get his own vehicle.

      Fortunately, his keys had been in his jacket pocket and he’d been on the road fast. He’d caught up with the old Ford three minutes later, two miles outside the city limits of Weatherbie, the affluent commuter community of less than ten thousand in Western Essex County.

      Because traffic was almost nonexistent, he’d had to drop back twice to ensure that they didn’t realize they were being followed. He’d assumed they were going to roll through town and had almost lost them when they’d turned off the main street. He’d circled back and wasted time looking for them.

      He’d found the car three blocks off the main drag, parked next to a square, one-story, frame building with a brick front on the corner of Marsh and Wooten. There was one other car in the small lot. There were narrow sidewalks and a couple of streetlights that provided inadequate illumination of what appeared to be a quiet area. He’d driven around the block once to get the lay of the land, then parked a block away, pulling into an empty spot on the street. He had a good visual of the front door.

      During the daytime, there was likely some foot traffic due to the apartment buildings on both sides and a hair salon and an oil change shop across the street. However, in the middle of the night, there was nobody around.

      At least not visible. Mack always expected somebody to be hiding in the shadows. It was what had kept him alive to the ripe old age of thirty-eight.

      It was the second time in less than twelve hours that he’d chased after Hope. It was starting to be a rather tiresome activity. At least it hadn’t been all the way back to New York City. She’d stayed local this time.

      But why?

      And what the hell was she doing inside the building?

      Buying drugs? Possible. But she didn’t look like a user. She had beautiful skin, shiny hair, pretty white teeth.

      Prostitution? That made his skin crawl. And he felt a surge of jealousy in his gut that he didn’t even attempt to analyze.

      Gambling? Maybe. She had a lot of money and she didn’t seem terribly upset about parting with it.

      Dog fighting? He thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead. He was getting ridiculous.

      He was just about to get out of his car, knock on the damn door and demand an explanation when an old El Camino with dual exhaust roared down the street. It slowed in front of the building just long enough for the passenger to toss something out of the window. Mack saw the flash.

      Holy hell. It was a Molotov cocktail and thrown hard enough that when it hit the front window, it broke through. He could see flames dance upward.

      The building was on fire and Hope was inside.

      Mack dialed 911 as he raced toward the building. When the operator answered, he reported the fire and indicated the cross streets. Then he described the car that had fled the scene before he hung up on the operator, who was instructing him to stay on the line.

      The front door was locked. He had to kick it twice before it gave and he was able to push his way through. The small lobby area was already filling with smoke. He could see flames climbing the curtains, spreading onto the small couch, licking their way across the carpet. Heard a woman screaming.

      He didn’t think it was Hope. That didn’t make him feel any better.

      He tried the interior door. Locked. His other option was going over the waist-high counter that separated the lobby from a small reception area. He braced his hands on the counter and easily vaulted the barrier. On the desk was a fire extinguisher, on its side, as if it had been tossed there. The pin had been pulled. Mack picked it up and pressed the handle, but nothing happened.

      It was either empty or defective. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t helping.

      There was another door. This one not locked. It opened