Christmas Stalking. Margaret Daley

enough that he hoped would discourage the mountain lion from plowing its way inside.

      Then he examined the ground.

      Footprints were barely visible on the dry ground, but about five or six feet away, tire impressions in the dead weeds and grass were clearer. Someone had pulled a vehicle up to the fence.

      He swung around and swept his flashlight around his grandmother’s property and then it hit him: Where were the dogs? Why weren’t they over here?

      * * *

      Ellie entered Winnie’s bedroom, her gun drawn but at her side in case the older woman was in the room unaware of what was transpiring outside. She didn’t want to frighten her with a gun being waved in the air—not two nights in a row. Halting a few feet inside, Ellie stared at the messy covers spilling over onto the floor, the empty bed. As she raised her weapon, she circled the room, checking for her client. After opening the bathroom door, she noted the spacious area was empty.

      As much as she would like to rush back outside and search the grounds for Winnie or any clue to her whereabouts, she had to check the house first.

      As she started with the room next to Winnie’s, prayers for the woman’s safety flooded her thoughts. When she reached Colt’s bedroom, she hesitated, feeling awkward to intrude on his privacy. But she had a job to do. She pushed open the door and looked inside.

      This is ridiculous. If the man had followed her orders, she wouldn’t have to do this right now. She stepped inside and made a quick tour—noting his duffel bag on a chair, his shoes on the floor, keys and some change on the dresser, pictures on the wall from when he was young.

      A picture of him coming out of the darkness with a speargun in his hand crowded into her thoughts. She shook the image from her mind and turned to leave.

      “What are you doing in my grandson’s room with a gun in your hand?”