Her Stolen Past. Lynette Eason

I’ll grab some sleep. What time is your shift tomorrow?”

      “Seven A to Seven P.” Meaning seven in the morning to seven at night. “What about you?”

      “The same, but I’ll have to go home and change before I go in.”

      “I have some clothes and scrubs you can use if you want to borrow them.”

      She almost took her friend up on the offer. Instead, she said, “I’ll just go home early in the morning and get ready. My house is on the way to the hospital, so it’s no big deal. And besides, I have to feed Chaucer.”

      Chaucer, her cat, independent and aloof until it was time to eat, but she’d filled his bowls before her run earlier and he would be physically fine for the next few hours. His temperament would leave a lot to be desired, but she’d deal with that later.

      Missy shrugged and yawned. “Okay. Well, if you need anything, feel free to ask or browse.”

      Sonya smiled. “Thanks. Shampoo and conditioner are all I need for now.”

      “All right. See you in the morning.”

      Sonya sat on the couch for a few minutes after Missy padded down the hallway to her bedroom. She stared at the clock on the mantel and listened to it tick.

      Each click of the second hand felt like fingernails on a chalkboard.

      Now that she was alone, the thought that she could have died today ate at her. “I don’t know why You left me here, Lord, but I thank You for that,” she whispered. She knew she’d die one day, and she was ready for when it happened. Meaning she knew she’d go to heaven, but until that time, she wanted her life to count, to mean something.

      She saw death on a daily basis, but coming face-to-face with the fact that a bullet could have so easily taken her out made her shudder.

      And made her all the more determined to find out what had happened to little Heather Bradley. To find out if Brandon’s hunch was right and she was Heather. Because if she was, her entire life had been a lie.

      * * *

      From his deck, Brandon sat in the darkness, ignoring the humidity that caused sweat to bead across his forehead. He stared at the half-moon and allowed his mind to process the day. At two in the morning, he sipped a soda, a rare drink for him, but one he enjoyed on occasion.

      Living in the middle of downtown had its advantages, one of which was proximity to both of his offices. When Jordan Gray had looked him up after his last tour in Iraq, at loose ends and grieving the death of his brother, who’d recently died of an overdose, Brandon had offered him the spare bedroom.

      And now Jordan was getting married to Katie Randall this summer. A June wedding Katie admitted she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl, but never really thought would happen. They’d bought a small house about fifteen minutes away and Katie was moving in tomorrow.

      After the wedding, Jordan would join her, and Brandon would be left alone. He could afford the payment, but had to admit he’d be a little lonely. Not that things would be much different than they were now. Jordan spent every spare minute with Katie, coming home only to sleep and shower.

      First Erica and Max had tied the knot, now Jordan and Katie. Brandon wondered if he’d ever meet someone. Someone real, someone who didn’t want to be with him just because the media had labeled him a hero.

      His jaw tightened. Then relaxed as Sonya came to mind. She seemed so likable and genuine. He hoped that was the case, but would keep his guard up. His ex-fiancée had seemed quite likable and genuine—until she’d met someone who didn’t come with as much baggage attached to him.

      Brandon knew he had issues that stemmed from his family situation—and he was working on them. It had hurt when Krystal had decided she didn’t want to work on them with him.

      Brandon turned to head back inside. The lamp in his den went out. He stopped. Looked at his kitchen window. The light over the sink was off, too.

      For a moment, he stood silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The town house to his left had power. So did the one to his right.

      A blown fuse?

      Maybe. But in his line of work, he wasn’t going with that assumption.

      Brandon set his drink on the small table next to the chair and reached for his weapon. The one that wasn’t there because he’d left it on his kitchen counter. Next to his cell phone.

      Wary, Brandon slipped to the edge of the deck and waited. Watching through the French doors. Even though it was dark inside, the moon offered a bit of light, coming through the open blinds and into the den.

      His patience paid off when a thin shadow moved into his line of sight. The person paused, then moved to his desk. A thin beam of light came from a small penlight. Who was it?

      Itching to confront the intruder, Brandon held still, waiting and watching. A weapon appeared for a brief moment, and the large barrel on the end said this was no random break-in.

      His gut twisted as he mentally moved into battle mode. His right hand twitched, wanting the comforting feel of his Glock against his palm.

      The town house had two levels. Right now, they were on the bottom level. Upstairs he had three bedrooms. One for him, one for Jordan and one he used as an office. The antique desk in the living area simply served as decoration.

      But his intruder didn’t know that.

      Did the person not realize he was home?

      The weapon said yes. The leisurely search of the desk said no. Or he wasn’t worried about it.

      Brandon waited for a lull in the traffic, then slid the glass door open and slipped inside. He closed the door with a quiet hiss.

      The figure at the other end of the town house paused. Lifted his head as though listening. Brandon stayed still, his only thought to get to his weapon. The person moved toward him, his weapon held expertly in front of him.

      Brandon took note. Weapons training. Breaking-and-entering training. What else? Not wanting to be caught unprepared and while the element of surprise was still on his side, he moved on silent feet through the darkness to the kitchen.

      The intruder’s gun popped, flashed. The bullet slammed into the wall next to Brandon’s head.

      So much for being quiet.

      He dived for the kitchen and rolled as another bullet burned a hole in his newly laid tile floor. Anger fizzled. His back hit the cabinets. He lifted his hand and snagged his Glock from the counter, keeping his head low.

      He’d been shot before. He had no intention of letting it happen again. With his other hand, he reached up and grabbed his phone.

      “Come around the corner and you get shot. Tell me what you want and you might keep breathing.” He kept his voice steady. Controlled. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. Not even this person intent on killing him. He did, however, want to know who it was. But he wasn’t going hunting blind.

      Brandon listened as he punched in 911 and pressed the phone to his ear.

      Silence from the den. The 911 operator’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded incredibly loud. He lowered the phone.

      A whisper of movement from the living area reached him. Brandon stilled. Moving closer or moving away?

      Brandon tried again. “Get out while the getting’s good.” He pressed the phone back to his ear and whispered his address.

      “Yes, sir. I got it. What’s the emergency?”

      He didn’t answer, just listened.

      Still the intruder said nothing and made almost no sound. Brandon waited, nerves bunched, muscles quivering with his tension. A low voice finally came to him. “Stop looking for Heather Bradley.”

      And then the quiet snick of the door shutting.