“Morning, Coco,” she returned before picking up a magnolia leaf the size of a saucer that had skidded into her garage and depositing it in the trash can. “Have a good day.”
Not waiting for a response, Melanie closed the garage just as Poppy started a high-pitched barking frenzy that signaled a threat in the backyard. Likely just a mama cardinal bringing breakfast to its babies in the Ligustrum on the corner of the house. Poppy alerted them to all intruders, big or small. As Melanie passed the catchall desk in the mudroom, she heard a ding.
Kit had forgotten his iPad, and he’d be upset because he preferred using it over his laptop when he was on the move.
Melanie craned her neck and saw the text was from Charlotte.
Room 342. Key is at the front desk. Can’t wait.
What the—
“Mother. Effer.” Melanie picked up the iPad, not exactly repeating the word her son had used earlier but totally thinking the real version in her head.
Was Kit cheating on her with Charlotte?
CHAPTER TWO
Tennyson O’Rourke set the glass of somewhat decent cabernet on the glass-top table beside her and tried not to scream. Another bump sounded from the back of her house. She may be on her third glass of wine, but she wasn’t hearing things.
Someone was in the house she’d moved into only a week ago.
More specifically, someone was in her bedroom.
Slowly she reached for the cell phone she’d tucked beneath her thigh and dialed 911, praying that whoever was in her room would stay there long enough for the police to arrive.
Tennyson wasn’t ready to die . . . especially looking the way she currently looked.
For one thing, she’d slapped a charcoal mask on her face minutes ago. Then there was too much gray lining the part of her too-shaggy mane. Those hairs of doom would be dealt with the next day. If she managed to live long enough. And finally, she wore an old T-shirt of Andrew’s, one she’d tugged on to unpack the rest of the boxes, that was now stained with the red wine she’d spilled when she opened the bottle. Oh, and her lululemon leggings were torn at the knee, thanks to a rogue fence at the park. She was a mess.
Tennyson watched CSI. She knew they took crime scene photos that the detectives tacked on the wall and then later passed around to the jury. So she could not die looking like this.
Could not.
“911. Where’s your emergency?” said a very professional-sounding woman.
“There’s someone in my house,” she whispered, glancing desperately toward the back of the house.
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to speak up. I can’t hear you,” the 911 operator said.
“I said there’s someone in my house,” she said in a whisper-yell.
“Someone’s in your home?”
“Yes. Send the police. Please.”
“Okay, ma’am. Are you calling from a landline or a mobile phone?”
“My cell phone,” she said, trying to concentrate on the woman’s words. Fear squeezed her so hard she could hardly think.
“Okay, I’m pinging it now. Please confirm the address.”
What was the house number? “Uh, I just moved in, but it’s on Fairlane Boulevard. I can’t remember the number.”
“In Briarcliff Estates?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, ma’am, I’m sending help. Is there a way you can safely exit the premises?”
“There’s a set of French doors off the kitchen, but I’m afraid he will see me.” Someone else could be outside in a getaway car. With a gun.
“Okay, ma’am, stay with me. Are you armed?”
Armed? Tennyson darted her gaze around the small sitting area off the kitchen. She didn’t own a firearm, and the butcher block with her new knives was still in the box on the kitchen cabinet. What could she use as a weapon? On the table to her right lay the nail file she’d used earlier, her wine, and a copy of Us Weekly. The nail file might work. Or she could smash the goblet and use the glass in some way? Or the lamp. She could throw the lamp and try to run. Her eyes landed on the nearly empty bottle of wine.
“Ma’am, are you still there?”
A crash and thump sounded in her bedroom.
“Oh God. I hear him. He’s in my bedroom.” She pressed a hand to her mouth and thought about what she should do. “Uh, I don’t have a weapon. Um, there’s a wine bottle on my coffee table.”
Had she locked the windows in her bedroom when she’d closed them earlier? She thought she had. Earlier that afternoon, she’d opened them to air out the stuffy house. She’d been sick with a cold for the first few days after moving in and finally felt well enough to unpack the boxes she’d shoved against the wall. Was that how he’d gotten in? Oh God, what if there was more than one person?
Another muffled thump made her heart leap.
“Ma’am, I have an officer en route. Is there a secure place you can go? Perhaps a place to conceal yourself?” the 911 operator asked. The woman’s voice was so professional. So calm.
Tennyson’s hands shook so hard she thought she might drop the phone. A place to hide? Something inside her told her to stay as quiet and still as possible, but perhaps hiding would be best. There was a closet to her left, but it had shelves. The couch sat flush against the wall, but her grandmother’s refurbished armchair might be big enough to crouch behind.
“Should I hide?” she whispered, keeping her eyes trained on the hallway just beyond the kitchen. Her Louis Vuitton bag sat agape on the marble counter. Surely the burglar would go for her wallet and the cash she’d taken out at the bank earlier that day. Unless he wasn’t after money.
What if . . .
“If there is a safer place for you, please go there. An officer should be there in two to three minutes.”
“Okay,” Tennyson said, easing off the couch and moving as silently as she could toward the chair that had been delivered from the upholstery shop three days before. She could still smell the fabric dye. Her body ran hot and cold, and the panting breaths she took sounded loud in her ears. Her galloping heart thumped so hard against her chest she was certain whoever had broken into her house could hear it.
“When the officer arrives, I need you to make sure he can access the property.”
“What?” she asked as she sank into a crouch behind the chair.
“You have to let him inside, ma’am.”
“Okay. Can you tell him to come around back? I mean, that’s where I am, and I’m afraid to walk to the front. It’s a big house, and I don’t know how to work all the locks and stuff yet.”
If the intruder came into the hearth room and saw her, she would grab the wine bottle and throw it at him and then bolt for the French doors that led out onto her patio. The dead bolt was probably turned, so she would have to be fast. And she wasn’t very fast. She’d always been picked last in gym class . . . even if her toe touch was to die for. Or, well, it used to be before she got freaking old.
She sat with the phone glued to her ear, reminding herself to breathe and stay calm. Finally, flashing lights glanced off the freshly painted wall.
Thank God.
She strained to hear any further noises from her room but heard nothing more.
A shadow fell across the floor, and she reared back only to realize it came from the French doors. The door made a sound as the officer tried the knob. It was locked.