Kill Me Again. Maggie Shayne

and he wasn’t leaving it behind.

      The next time every nurse was way from the desk, Aaron slipped out of his room, padded along the hall and lifted Olivia’s car key right off the rack. Then he turned and moved farther along the hallway, passing patients’ rooms, peering inside until he spotted a man in a bed who looked to be in the vicinity of his own size and shape. The patient was sound asleep, no nurses hovering nearby. So Aaron ducked into the room, moved quietly to the closet, opened it and saw the man’s clothes stored there just as his own had been.

      Ducking into the bathroom, he donned the clothes—jeans, a black T-shirt and a denim jacket—as fast as he could. The running shoes were two sizes too small, so he didn’t bother exchanging his own scuffed but expensive-looking black ones with those. Then he had to watch and wait for the nurses to get busy again before he could slip out of the room, toward the door marked Stairs.

      Once in the stairwell, he figured he was home free. He took that route all the way to the ground floor. No one noticed him as he headed toward the exit, or if they did, they didn’t say anything. He didn’t take any more time than necessary, looking as if he knew exactly where he was going, exuding confidence and purpose and probably a hint of impatience.

      Finally he was passing through the exit doors, and into the parking lot. And only then did he breathe a huge sigh of relief, followed by a refreshing lungful of fresh, cool, summer night air. It tasted good here, he thought, and wondered if that was something new to him. Maybe he lived in a city.

      It took him a few minutes of searching to find Olivia’s car, but only a few. It was the only white hybrid SUV in the parking lot. He hit the unlock button, and it flashed its headlights at him in response.

      Moments later he was pulling in to the scarce traffic of a Shadow Falls night.

      He gave himself time to get a few blocks away before pulling over again. Then, feeling safe—or as safe as a man who knew someone with a gun was out there looking for him could feel—he took the time to turn on the dash-mounted GPS device. He touched the screen, chose Navigate To and then looked at his selections. Street Address, City Center, Point of Attraction, Home.

      Smiling, he touched the word Home.

      Olivia Dupree’s address popped up onto the screen, and a female voice said, “Left turn ahead.”

      4

      Olivia sat up slowly, her heart pounding so hard she would have sworn whoever was in her house could hear it as clearly as she did. “Freddy,” she whispered harshly. “Freddy, where are you?”

      But there was no reply.

      He wasn’t lying on the floor beside the bed, the way he usually did, so she could let her arm dangle over the side, and stroke his big head until he fell asleep. He wasn’t lying on the bed, across her lower legs, or with his head on her chest, rendering her immobile or in danger of suffocation, either.

      Where was her dog?

      And who was creeping around in her kitchen?

      Olivia reached for the telephone on the nightstand, pushed the talk button and heard nothing but dead air. No landline. Her blood went cold. Had the intruder cut the phone line?

      And then her mind went to the place it would have gone sooner if she hadn’t trained herself to avoid it. Her ex-lover, Tommy Skinner. Had he finally found out the truth? That she was still alive and in hiding, living a false life under a false name. A life that felt more real than any other one ever had. Had he finally come, sixteen years later, to exact revenge for what she’d done to him?

      She had to get out of the house, she realized, no longer willing to downplay the fear that was trying to keep her alive.

      But first she had to find her dog.

      She slid from the bed, unconsciously smoothing her red flannel pajama bottoms and white lacy camisole top, and tiptoed to the bedroom door, which stood two inches ajar. She never shut it all the way, so that Freddy could come and go throughout the night. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was on a hook in the living-room closet. Dammit. She didn’t have a gun, either. Not there in the house, anyway. She’d never thought she would need a gun with Freddy around.

      She peered through the slightly open door into the living room, and saw Freddy, lying on his side on the hardwood floor. Asleep, she thought—and then the truth hit her. He was lying too still, not moving at all. And he would have heard the sounds that had awakened her far sooner than she would have. She tensed in shock and fear, about to pull the door wider and run to him, but before she could, it crashed inward, hitting her in the head and sending her backward onto the floor. Her forehead screamed in pain, and she felt a trickle of blood there, even as she realized a man wearing a black ski mask was standing over her. Scrambling backward, crablike, she shielded her face with one arm, and went icy cold in terror when he lifted a gun and pointed it at her.

      “Stay still!” he barked from behind the mask.

      “What did you do to my dog?” She made no effort to keep her voice down.

      “Quiet, dammit!” He worked the gun’s action.

      “All right, all right.” She stayed still and bit her lip to keep from speaking again. She was shaking from head to toe, yet her mind kept on working. She tried to get a look at him in case she lived through this, so she could give a description later on. Her arm was still blocking her face. She couldn’t seem to convince herself to lower it, so she peeked around it. Her assailant was lean and wiry, not overly tall, though he seemed it as she lay on her back on the floor, looking up into his gun barrel. “Please,” she whispered, unable to keep her mouth shut, despite his threats. “Please tell me what’s wrong with my dog. What did you do to him?”

      “Shut up!”

      She shut up but kept taking mental notes. He was wearing a ski mask, a black turtleneck, black jeans and black gloves. At first she wasn’t even sure of his skin color, but then she glimpsed it through the eye holes of the mask. He was Caucasian. It was too dark to guess his eye color.

      He went to her dresser and yanked open the drawers, raking his hands through her clothes, sending them flying in the process, all the while keeping the gun and one eye on her. He pulled one drawer all the way out and flung it to the floor when he was finished, then turned to her closet.

      “What do you want?”

      He turned sharply and stared at her. “I told you to shut up, bitch! Do you want to die like your dog?”

      “Freddy! No!” She surged to her feet, ignoring him, his threats and his gun, and took one lunging step toward the bedroom door.

      Her attacker caught her bodily around the waist, flung her backward onto the bed and leaned over her. “The disks. I want the disks. Where are they, Sarah?”

      “Sarah…” she whispered. God, no one had called her that in more than sixteen years. “No, I’m not Sarah. I’m Oliv—”

      He swung his gun hand so suddenly that she couldn’t anticipate the blow, and her position on the bed didn’t leave room to duck it, anyway. The side of the handgun connected with her jaw, and her head snapped hard to one side. He straddled her on the bed as stars exploded behind her eyes and lifted the gun again.

      But then something—no, someone—tackled him from the side, the momentum carrying him off the bed to the floor. Olivia scrambled off the bed herself, though her head was spinning. Stumbling toward the doorway, she managed to stay upright, to get through it with only one thought on her mind.

      Freddy.

      He was still there on the floor, and he hadn’t moved. She staggered toward him, then fell half on top of him, hugging his big neck. “Oh, Freddy, come on, baby. Freddy? Freddy!”

      The other two crashed into the living room, and she surged to her feet again, racing for the closet and the cell phone she’d left in her purse. The newcomer delivered a series of blows delivered so rapidly she couldn’t have counted them. The intruder’s head snapped