Perfect Alibi. Melody Carlson

       ONE

      Mallory Myers loosened her death grip on the steering wheel. Taking in another deep, calming breath, she peered down the pitch-black road ahead. Even though her intellect told her that it was unlikely she was being followed, her instincts disagreed. In her mind’s eye she could see Brock Dennison in his silver BMW, speeding down the highway, trying to catch her.

      And yet, she knew this was preposterous. For one thing, Brock would barely be finished anchoring the eleven o’clock news by now, and she was two hours away from Portland. For another, he was Brock Dennison, the golden boy of the Channel Six News. Just the same, she checked her rearview mirror one last time as she slowed down to turn into her parents’ darkened driveway. The headlights that had been tailing her were nowhere in sight now. Home safe.

      Her parents’ lodge-style home was nestled in the ponderosa woods, bordering the National Forest. Remote, yes, but a great place to lie low for a while. The perfect place to get her bearings and hopefully some sleep. Having a dad in law enforcement, with a well-stocked gun cabinet, added to her growing sense of security. Home safe.

      She glanced over her shoulder as she hurried to the front door. Naturally, she could see nothing out there—and the tall ponderosa pines made the moonless summer night even blacker. The house was dark, too, but that wasn’t unusual since her parents always went to bed with the chickens—even after they’d given up the henhouse. She turned her key in the front-door lock and quietly slipped inside, bracing herself for the familiar sounds of Barney’s startled yips. Her parents’ chocolate Lab was better than a security system. Nothing sneaked past him.

      To her surprise the house remained silent when she entered, and she quickly discovered it was vacant. As she turned on the overhead light in her parents’ bedroom, staring at the neatly made king-size bed, she remembered the message Mom had left earlier this week. Back before Mallory’s life had fallen completely apart. Her parents were driving cross-country for a family reunion and wouldn’t be home for two weeks.

      Dad—her protector—was probably halfway across the country by now. That explained why he hadn’t returned her call. Not wanting to upset her mother with her tearful voice, she’d left her disturbing message on Dad’s work phone instead of on the landline’s voice mail that her mother might listen to. But her parents were long gone and oblivious. And Mallory was more alone than ever.

      Keeping the houselights low, she checked the doors and windows, making certain everything was locked tight. It was far more secure than her studio apartment back in Portland—a place she never wanted to go back to.

      Her chest tightened at the memory of that horrifying scene in her bathroom last night. Mallory had made the gruesome discovery herself, yet still found it hard to believe. Her best friend, Kestra, had been murdered. Her throat slit, she was lifelessly sprawled across the checkerboard floor in a pool of shiny red blood. Mallory shuddered, feeling sick to her stomach as that macabre picture assaulted her again. Would she ever be free of that image? It did no good to keep replaying it. It didn’t help Mallory, and it was too late to help Kestra. Poor Kestra!

      Still shaking from the chilling memory, Mallory hurried upstairs. First she went to her younger brother’s old room, scavenging some of Austin’s worn flannel pajama bottoms and a Blazers T-shirt, before hurrying across the hall to her childhood bedroom. But with no lock on the door, what was once a comforting space no longer felt completely safe. Nothing felt safe. Mallory scooted the heavy oak bureau in front of her door and reminded herself that no one knew her whereabouts. No one would come looking. Not yet, anyway. She needed to calm down. Just breathe...breathe.

      After removing her rumpled work clothes—the same outfit she’d been wearing for two long days—she pulled on Austin’s soft, worn clothes and climbed into bed. Then, with the silence of a dark mountain night enveloping her, she willed herself to let go, to surrender to some much needed sleep. But at 3:00 a.m., she was still wide-awake. Her heart was racing, her hands were still trembling—and her mind would not shut down. Despite the fact she hadn’t slept the previous night, even after her friend Virginia forced her to take sleeping pills with warm milk, Mallory felt certain she would never sleep again. Insomnia had become her new best friend. And this stuffy bedroom wasn’t helping.

      Longing for some fresh pine-scented air, she decided to open the window. And really, her normally sensible mind pointed out, no one had followed her, and even if they had it was unlikely they would scale the wall to get into this room. That was ridiculous. But another part of her argued that she had just cause for serious paranoia—Kestra had been murdered. Not only had Mallory been the one to discover her best friend’s body—in Mallory’s apartment—but Mallory had received death threats, as well.

      But replaying that scene was like this stale room—too thick and heavy and hot for sleeping. Besides, common sense would have to prevail if she wanted to survive the madness that had invaded her life. She pushed open the window and leaned forward, breathing in the cool night air. And for a brief moment she almost felt like her old self again. Almost as if the past thirty-six hours of horror had simply been a nightmare. As if her dear friend had not been brutally murdered and Mallory was not in grave danger right now.

      Mallory closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she attempted to calm herself. She couldn’t keep replaying this tragedy over and over. Not if she wanted to maintain some semblance of sanity. She sucked in a deep breath of night air and started to cough. Something was wrong. That sharp, acrid aroma wasn’t the cool night-woods scent she’d known since childhood. It was smoke!

      She leaned forward and sniffed again. There had to be a fire nearby. It smelled like wood smoke. A campfire, perhaps? Except that she knew there were no campgrounds in these parts. Plus it was mid-July—the height of forest-fire season. Open fires weren’t allowed this time of year. And open burning was prohibited after sunset, no matter what time of year. She tried to think. Could someone be burning something in a fireplace or woodstove? On a hot day like this had been? She sniffed again. No, something was definitely wrong.

      She narrowed her eyes, peering out her window into the inky darkness. Her window faced east, but it was too early for sunrise and she could see nothing. But the smell of smoke was getting stronger. Mallory pushed the bureau away from her door and raced downstairs. Running from room to room, she looked out all the windows, searching for the source of the smoke.

      Out the kitchen window, she spotted a flickering light through the trees. An orange-ish glow that wasn’t too far off. A forest fire! Her heart raced as she reached for the old wall phone by the breakfast bar. But the phone was dead. A cold wave of fear washed over her as she imagined a dark figure outside, armed with the knife he’d used to cut the phone line. Perhaps it was the same knife that had been used to murder her best friend.

      She silently placed the receiver back in the cradle and bolted up the stairs for her cell phone. Was there a rational reason the phone was down? Was she overreacting? Perhaps it was related to the fire. Trying to calm herself, she knew the only way to survive this ordeal was to keep her wits about her.

      She turned on her phone but remembered how the house’s metal roof played havoc with her connectivity. She’d have to step outside to make a call. But what if the killer had followed her? What if he was lurking nearby, planning to kill her, just as she was certain he had killed Kestra only yesterday.

      “Stop it!” she said aloud as she raced back down the stairs. “Just stop it!”

      Despite her fear, she knew she had to make the 911 call. She couldn’t allow her parents’ home to go up in flames for some irrational fear. Bracing herself, she stepped outside and with trembling fingers pressed the numbers. Crouching down in the porch’s shadows, she listened to the ringtone. Fortunately the dispatcher answered promptly, and Mallory blurted out her parents’ address and news of the fire.

      “It looks like it’s about fifty yards west of the house—maybe closer.” She peered toward the orange blur behind the ponderosa pine trees. “It’s