Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles

her panic.

      Spinning around, she faced the tall man who stood beside his car. He appeared real. His lips moved, and he spoke.

      “What’s the problem?”

      If he had to ask, he hadn’t come in response to her 911 call. When he took a step toward her, she held up the knife. “Stay where you are. What’s your name?”

      “Michael Shaw.” The glow from his headlights showed a calm, self-assured expression. His face was familiar. “We’ve met. I was hoping you’d remember me,” he said with a hint of a Southern drawl. “I was in your shop this afternoon. You sold me a pair of gloves.”

      Indeed, she recalled. And the memory—a reality—grounded her.

      Michael Shaw had been the high point of her day. He was tall and lean with eyes the color of jade and a smile that could melt a glacier. She’d been flattered when he leaned across the counter in the boutique and asked her opinion as if he really cared what she thought. They must have talked for fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, his accent reminded her of Atlanta—the one place in the world she wanted to forget.

      When he’d asked her out for coffee, she’d treasured the moment but still said no. After Thomas, she’d had enough of smooth-talking Southern gentlemen to last the rest of her lifetime.

      “Why are you here?” she demanded. “Did you follow me?”

      “Calm down, Brooke. I’m a cop. Remember? I told you this afternoon. I’m a police detective from Birmingham, Alabama.”

      She nodded, recalling their conversation. He was a cop. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a threat. “What do you want from me?”

      “We need to talk. I have something important to tell you, and it can’t wait any longer,” he said, his eyes falling on the knife she held.

      “That’s why you asked me out.”

      “And you turned me down.” He clapped one gloved hand upon his chest. “Nearly broke my heart.”

      He took a step toward her, and she pointed the knife directly at his chest. “Don’t come any closer.”

      “Okay, Brooke.” He stepped back and paused, studying her. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”

      Suspiciously, she studied his handsome features. He seemed not to know what was going on, yet he happened to arrive at her house at this particular moment by pure chance. Could she trust him? After being stalked by her ex, she’d learned not to trust in coincidence. On the other hand, she needed help.

      “It’s Sally,” she said. “My roommate.”

      “Tell me about Sally.” His voice was steady and reassuring, just the right tone for a cop. Not that she was entirely sure she trusted cops, either. “You don’t have to be afraid. Whatever it is, I’m on your side.”

      She stared into the darkness at the end of the driveway. Her ears strained to hear the sound of an approaching siren. “The police are on the way. The real police.”

      “Oh, I’m a real officer. If you want, I’ll show you my badge.”

      “That’s not necessary.”

      “Okay.” He nodded. “Now, take a breath. A long, slow breath. You need to calm down, Brooke.”

      His tone irritated her, somehow implying that her terror was silly. “Don’t patronize me.”

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just want you to tell me what’s got you so scared.”

      My whole life. But she didn’t have time to explain. She had to cut Sally down, and she needed Michael to help her. “Do you have a gun?”

      “Yes.”

      “Follow me.”

      Aware that she might be making another mistake in judgment, she led Michael to the kitchen door of the A-frame. Was there any hope that Sally could be saved? Of course there was, she told herself.

      He held his gun in both hands and pushed open the door with his foot. “Is someone in there with your roommate?”

      “I thought I saw him. A face at the window.”

      “Stay close to me.”

      He entered with the kind of confidence that comes from training, identifying himself loudly and repeatedly as a policeman. His deep voice echoed against the slanted walls of the house. The barrel of his gun was pointed and ready.

      When he saw Sally, he paused. “Your roommate?”

      “Yes.”

      “She looks a lot like you.”

Chapter Two

      Reaching up, Michael grasped the wrist of the woman who hung from the heavy rope, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Not even a flutter. Her skin felt as cold as a gutted trout. She smelled like feces. In his ten years on the Birmingham PD, Michael had only seen one other hanging. But he didn’t need a coroner to tell him this woman was deceased.

      He glanced toward Brooke. Though she stood very still with the butcher knife clutched in her fist, her blue eyes were alive, darting in restless panic.

      “We need to cut her down,” she said in a shaky voice. “She might just be unconscious. I know CPR.”

      He suspected that she already knew her roommate was dead, but he didn’t feel it was the moment to state that painful truth out loud. “You said there was someone else in the house.”

      “I think so.” She pointed toward the sliding glass doors. “Over there. I think he was dressed in black.”

      “Gloves?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “How tall?”

      “Don’t know. Average.”

      “Did you recognize him?” She refused to look directly at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

      “It was all too fast.” Her features twisted in anguish. “I’m not sure he was really there.”

      It took guts to admit that she was freaked out, but he hoped her possible delusion wasn’t symptomatic. “Has that happened to you before? Seeing things that aren’t there?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you taking any medications?”

      Her chin lifted. “We don’t have time to talk about any of that. We need to help Sally.”

      Whether she was delusional or not, she was in serious denial about Sally’s condition. He wished that he knew more about Brooke Johnson, that he’d taken more time to research her personal history before he’d tracked her down. “First, we need to make sure there’s no one else in the house. I want you to come with me. We’ll start upstairs.”

      Holding his gun at the ready, he climbed the staircase with Brooke right behind him. When he pushed open the door to the first bedroom, he saw chaos. Unmade bed. Curtains torn askew. Dirty dishes piled on the bedside table. Clothes draped everywhere. “Could be there was a struggle in here.”

      “Actually,” Brooke said, “this is the way it always looks.”

      Michael nodded, making a mental note to search Sally’s cluttered desktop later for a suicide note. “Okay, let’s check the other rooms.”

      At the opposite end of the open balcony was Brooke’s neat room—a major contrast to the chaos left behind by her roommate. The open door of her closet revealed a neat row of plastic hangers with all the shirts facing the same direction. From the clean surface of her dresser and her desk with a closed laptop