Percy purred and arched his back to her hand for more affection.
“Lot of help you are. Hell, I suppose being the psychic, I ought to know. Then again ...” She glanced across the room to where her computer sat, collecting dust. “I suppose I could do a little research, couldn’t I?”
She set Percy aside, ignored his mewling protests, and crossed the room to open the laptop. A few mouse clicks later she was online, running a search on Samuel Sheridan. She was surprised at the number of hits that came up, news articles, mostly, and they stunned her.
Samuel Sheridan, Killed in Line of Duty.
Officer Shot Down in Robbery Attempt.
Hero Cop Gives All.
She clicked on the first link, which took her to a newspaper’s website, but not to the article. So she went back to the search results and tried again, finding the same outcome every time. Frowning, she looked more closely at the links, each of which gave just a line or two of the accompanying story, and realized the links were more than a decade old.
Of the three newspaper sites, only one had a “Search the Archives” button, and she used it, relieved when the article actually showed up. She read through the piece, and realized Sam’s father had been a cop, too, and that he’d died in the line of duty just a few days after his thirty-fifth birthday. This article was about him, not her Sam.
“Samuel Sheridan Jr. was shot at point-blank range when he attempted to foil a liquor store robbery in progress last night. Both suspects were also killed.”
The article shocked her, but not so much as the line that brought her to a grinding halt.
"It is a painful irony that Samuel Sheridan’s father, also a police officer, was likewise killed in the line of duty at the age of thirty-five. In the elder Sheridan’s case, death came by way of a high-speed pursuit that ended in a fiery crash."
She blinked slowly. Both Sam’s father and his grandfather had been police officers, and they’d both died in the line of duty at the age of thirty-five? How horrible. Sam couldn’t have been more than a child when his father died. She wondered how old he'd been, then wondered how old he was now. He mentioned at dinner that he had a birthday coming up.
A low growl made her turn her head sharply. Percival stood on the back of the sofa, staring toward the front door, his back arched and the hair on the scruff of his neck bristling. His tail switched back and forth.
“Percy, what’s wrong?” She looked toward the door, too, suppressing a shiver.
Percy jumped to the floor and darted across the room, ducking through the slightly open bedroom door and out of sight.
As a guard dog, her cat left a lot to be desired.
Megan saved the article to her hard drive, then closed the lid and walked to the front door. She hadn’t locked it behind her when she’d come in, she thought. After what she’d witnessed tonight, that should have been the first thing she thought to do. She turned the locks now, even while peering through the glass panes, but they were more decorative than functional. Beveled and tinted. Pretty, but useless.
She backed up enough to flip on the outdoor light, then moved to the nearest window to push the curtains aside and peek out.
She saw no one. Nothing. She thought she would have felt better if she had. A local dog trotting by or a neighbor out for a walk. Her cat had sensed something out there. But what?
A car passed by, and its lights fell on a solitary figure, standing across the street. A man. Just standing there, staring at her house.
Megan jerked away from the window, swallowed hard, then forced herself to lean closer again, to take another look.
White sneakers.
The attacker in the park had been wearing white sneakers. It was the one thing she’d noticed, the way they stood out so prominently in contrast to the darkness of the night, and to his jeans.
Jeans. White sneakers and blue jeans. Okay, at least she had something to tell Sam.
What the hell was the killer doing outside her house? If it even was him. Hell, there were probably lots of men running around in white sneakers and jeans. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the little card Sam had given her. Then she dialed his number and prayed he would answer.
Chapter 6
Sam was leaving the victim’s hospital room when his cell phone bleated. He answered it, then said “Hold on” while a scowling nurse told him to turn it off or take it outside.
“Sorry.” He headed toward the elevators, noting the signs that told him not to use a cell phone inside the hospital, something he’d already known and just hadn’t thought about as he’d rushed in. When the doors slid closed on him, he brought the phone up to his ear again. “Yeah?”
“Sam. It’s Megan. There’s, um...there’s someone outside my house.”
He blinked twice, his brain quickly processing her words, weighing the fear in her voice, and spitting out an interpretation he didn’t much like, and a rush of panic so overblown it bore further analysis. But later. “Where?”
“He’s standing across the street. Just standing there, looking toward my house.”
The elevator stopped and Sam stepped out of it, striding rapidly toward the exit doors and through them into the parking lot as he spoke. “Are your doors locked, Megan?”
“Yeah.”
“You double-checked, all of them?”
“Yes, I did that. Windows, too.”
“Good girl.” He hit the lock release button on his car, got in, and started the engine. “I don’t suppose you’re getting any flashes? As to who this guy is or what he’s doing out there?”
“No flashes. Just a gut feeling. It’s him, Sam. It’s the killer. I know it is.”
He pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding out of the parking lot. “I’m on my way, hon. Five minutes, tops. I’m gonna click over and call nine-one-one, but I’ll come right back on with you. All right?”
“I...guess so.”
“Just for a second, I promise.”
“I’m scared, Sam.”
“I know. I know. I’m coming for you.”
He ran a red light while he manipulated the phone, hitting the flash key and dialing 911. He hit the flash key again to bring Megan back into the call as he took a corner so fast the car rocked to one side. “I’m back, Meg.”
The dispatcher’s line was ringing, and in a moment he heard, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Hold on,” he said. “Megan? Are you still there?”
No answer.
“Shit. Dispatcher, this is Detective Sam Sheridan with the Pinedale P.D., badge number seven eighty-five. I have a prowler, possible murder suspect, possible witness in danger, five-one-three Sycamore Street. I need immediate assistance.”
“I’ll send cars right out. Detective. Can you stay on the line?”
“No, I need the line open.”
“All right then. I have officers en route.”
She disconnected, but the line remained open. His call to Megan was still connected. “Meg?” Still no answer. His throat burned, and so did his eyes. He told himself he would be just as worried no matter who had been on the other end of that phone call, but he knew damn well it wasn’t true.
There was something about Megan Rose. It felt as if she had sunk roots into his flesh, roots that had burrowed deep and twined themselves around his bones. He didn’t get this way about women. In fact, he’d made a conscious decision not to. Not ever. It wasn’t part of his emotional makeup and never would be. So what the hell was this?