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  “I cut my run short. Wasn’t feeling it, so I got home earlier than normal. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard him in here. I think I surprised him.”

  “What makes you think the perpetrator is a man?” He happened to believe it was a man, but he wanted to see if he could coax anything else out of her.

  “I guess I assumed it was a man. Perpetrator makes them sound dangerous. Do you think I’m in danger?” She chewed on her bottom lip. Any hint of her happy-go-lucky attitude had disappeared, taking with it the color in her cheeks.

  “Yours is the first house that’s been broken into. Could be the convenience of knowing the house was empty, or you might have been targeted. Hard to say.”

  “That does not make me feel any better.” She tugged the stretched-out neck of her T-shirt up her shoulder, leaving it to droop in the middle, her breasts pressed together by the tight sports bra.

  With more effort than it should have cost him, he dragged his gaze upward. “Have you called anyone about fixing the door?”

  “I don’t even know who to call. I moved here at the start of the spring semester. I’m from New Orleans.”

  The words jerked a current of electricity through him. She had to be a handful of years younger than he was and definitely from a different class of people. Yet something resonated with him.

  “That’s where you’re from too, ain’t it, Chief?” Buzz piped up from where he was sipping his coffee, his shoulder propped against the wall.

  She cocked her head, her eyes too probing and curious for his comfort. “Whereabouts? I grew up in a drafty old house in the Garden District.”

  The most historic part of town. Old money. Horse-drawn carriages full of tourists swamped the area, whereas tourists and locals alike were warned to stay out of his part of town.

  “You know everyone in Cottonbloom, Buzz. Surely you can recommend someone,” he said, skirting the question. Her gaze grew piercing, and he found himself unable to break their unofficial staring contest.

  “My cousin Raymond’s a handyman and reasonable. You want me to give him a call, Sadie?” Buzz asked.

  She didn’t flinch or look toward Buzz as most people might. Instead, her demeanor turned analytical, and for the first time, he could easily see her in front of a class of students applying psychology theories to explain his idiosyncrasies. He would be one hell of a case study.

  “Would you? I would really appreciate that,” she said finally.

  “You got it.” Buzz slipped out of the kitchen to make the call.

  Now that they were alone, the strange tension ratcheted up, and he broke eye contact first, determined not to show how rattled he was. “You sure he didn’t get farther than the kitchen?”

  “Nothing else looks any different than I remember from this morning.” Her shrug sent her T-shirt back off one shoulder.

  “You mind giving me a quick tour?”

  “I guess not.” She gestured toward the door and led the way out.

  Thad rambled around the den checking windows, but nothing appeared damaged. The space only looked lived-in. The office was up next, and when she squatted to pick up the papers that had fallen to the floor, he stopped her with a hand around her upper arm. “Hold up. You’re sure these papers were on the floor when you left this morning?”

  “Maybe?” At his silence, she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and stacked the papers. “Okay, yes.”

  “What are they?”

  “Graded tests. I was entering scores into the college’s computer system.”

  “Just in case, I’ll need to know if anyone’s test is missing. I take it this”—he waved a pen around the room—“is a normal state of affairs?”

  “If you’re not-so-subtly implying I’m a little messy and disorganized, then yes, this is normal. Didn’t realize that was a crime, Chief.” The way she said his title was a little defensive and a lot baiting.

  For some reason he felt himself fighting a smile. “What’s that old saying, a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind?”

  A huffy sound escaped her throat. “I’ll bet it drives you crazy to have anything out on your desk. Do you empty it every evening before you leave work?”

  “Of course.” He didn’t add that the paperwork that crossed his desk was oftentimes sensitive in nature and needed to be locked away.

  The smile that came to her face would have been sweet if her dancing eyes hadn’t given her a sense of mischief. “By the way, the quote is from Albert Einstein and goes, ‘If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?’”

  Her jab was well-timed and hit his funny bone. The laugh that welled out of his chest was as hearty as it was unusual. Her smile widened in response, and he realized he’d been wrong. She was something more than just pretty.

  They stood staring at each other until his laughter trailed away. Still smiling, he said, “Take me to your bedroom.”

  Chapter Two

  The words sent a jolt through Sadie even though she understood his intentions were entirely professional. But that sexy, rough laugh and the way he moved. No, prowled. He didn’t merely enter a room, he owned it with some weird masculine energy that Freud would have described as primal. Didn’t help that he was handsome in a gruff, authoritarian, take-no-shit kind of way that she shouldn’t find appealing. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop staring at him.

  She shook her head to clear the fog of her thoughts—cluttered was a fair assessment—and led the way to the staircase. His footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs behind her. Remnants of adrenaline hurried her steps even though the logical part of her brain understood she wasn’t being chased.

  The first room was a guest bedroom that had been slept in one time by her parents. A bathroom was next. A towel lay crumpled on a fuzzy white mat, but otherwise everything was clean, thank goodness. Her bedroom, on the other hand, was more like her office, except with clothes and books.

  He stopped at her bedside table and ran a hand over the stack of books that ranged from a biography of Lincoln—the book she utilized as a sleep aid—to a cozy mystery novel.

  She took a sweeping glance around the room, seeing things through his eyes. Her laundry basket was half-full, a pink lace bra hanging over the side where she’d missed on her toss. She took one shuffling side step toward the basket, but it was too late, he’d moved on to the windows, checking the frames and latches. All she could see was the pink bra, three feet away from him.

  He gave the impression he missed nothing, although he didn’t comment on the bra, nor did his attention linger on it. After he had moved on, she let out her held breath and flipped the lacy scrap into the basket. The police chief was the first man to enter her bedroom since she’d moved to Cottonbloom.

  His examination didn’t take long, and she followed him down the stairs. Even though she was a couple of steps up, her gaze was level with the back of his head. How tall was he? A good foot taller than her five-four frame. Unlike the unrelenting blackness of her hair—minus the red streaks she’d had put in for fun—the dark brown of his was shot through with a variety of lighter strands no salon had the power to replicate.

  “You mind if I take a look around your backyard?” His deep voice echoed in the two-story entry.

  “Have at it.” She waved her hand toward her jimmied back door. “I’ll make sure all the tests are accounted for.”

  As she riffled through the papers, checking names against her class roster, her mind wandered back to the instant she’d unlocked her front door. The shock of hearing something other than silence had trapped her in her own personal hell for what had felt like forever. Not only had she not had the sense to retreat, but it had taken an eternity to realize she was clutching a lifeline—her phone.

  Only when she’d heard the siren and nothing else had she scuttled to the kitchen like a frightened little mouse. The back door had been standing open, the wood frame gouged. Even though she could logically disseminate the reasons behind her
unnatural fear, all her knowledge couldn’t eradicate it. Instead, she had covered her fear with smiles and a weirdly out-of-place hospitality ingrained by her mother.

  As she finished accounting for all the student tests, voices sounded on her front porch, too low for her to make out more than a random word. Buzz stuck his head around the door. “Knock, knock. My cousin’s here. I’ll take him on back.”

  She stood, and two tests still on her lap floated to the ground. The man who followed Buzz inside was skinny with hair that could almost be classified as a mullet if he hadn’t been mostly bald on top. They exchanged a handshake, his nonthreatening, friendly manner helping to set her at ease. His tool belt clinked on his walk back to the kitchen.

  Chief Preston slipped inside the front door and leaned against the doorjamb of her office, his arms crossed. “City council meeting tonight, and I have to attend. Raymond’s going to get you fixed up.”

  “Did you find anything out back?”

  “No footprints. Been a dry spring.”

  She swallowed against the surge of the same panic she’d felt earlier. “You think it’s the same person who’s been spotted lurking around the neighborhood?”

  “Maybe.” The word was measured, but he obviously thought her perpetrator was the same man. God, that word was too close to pervert.

  “A lock on a door didn’t stop him before. What if he comes back?” Rising anxiety made her voice sound tinny in her ears.

  “You have anywhere else you could stay for a few days?”

  In the three months she’d lived in Cottonbloom, the connections she’d made with her colleagues and neighbors were tenuous and nowhere near the can-I-crash-with-you friendships she’d had in New Orleans and later at college in Baton Rouge. The distance was her fault. She was enough master of her mind to accept the blame. Still, recognizing her weaknesses didn’t help her present situation.

  She plopped back down on her chair, her kneecaps dissolving under the surreality of the situation. Cottonbloom had seemed idyllic, and even more importantly, safe. A far cry from the crime of New Orleans and Baton Rouge, yet here she was in the thick of an investigation.

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go. You think I’m in danger?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably?”

  “I’ll have extra patrols out in this area, and here…” He pulled a card out of his back pocket and wrote something on the back. “This is my cell number. Call me if you see or hear anything, no matter what time.”

  “I’d hate to wake up your… wife?” She side-eyed him.

  “No wife. And I don’t mind. I want this guy stopped. He’s messing with my town.”

  From his earlier comments, she got the impression the lurker was like her cluttered desk, and the chief liked to keep clutter off his streets and out of his town. She took the embossed business card and flipped it over to stare at the neat row of numbers on the back.

  “I’m going to leave Buzz here with you until Raymond gets a new door and locks installed. You’re going to be fine.”

  How many times had she heard that platitude? Enough that she wanted to gag on it. She forced herself to see him out onto the porch and into a city patrol car. After he was out of sight, she shivered. Having him in her house had been like a deterrent in and of itself, and now she felt vulnerable, even with Buzz within shouting distance.

  It didn’t help that the sun was dropping toward the horizon. She kept her focus on the tendrils of light and refused to acknowledge the inky darkness spreading from the east, bringing with it her nightly fear.

  She chaffed her arms and looked up and down her street. A couple walked their dog and glanced her direction twice, but they didn’t catch her eye. She felt marked somehow. Tainted. Just like before.

  She retreated to her kitchen where Buzz and his cousin worked in tandem on her damaged door. They’d removed the old door, and now Raymond was working on the splintered wood of her doorjamb. She brewed fresh coffee for the three of them, and by the time the new door was installed, full darkness had fallen.

  After Raymond had handed over a new key and packed up his tools, Buzz said, “You’re going to be fine, Sadie. This lock is stronger; plus you have a chain now.”

  Buzz let himself out her front door, and this time she didn’t so much as put a foot over the threshold. The grooves of the new key left an indentation in her palm as she fought to keep from grabbing his sleeve and begging him to spend the night on her couch. Her pride reared up, and she forced a smile.

  “You’ll be driving by and checking on things, right?”

  Buzz checked his watch. “Actually, my shift ended an hour ago, but the chief will send patrols by all night. Don’t you worry about that.”

  Before Buzz even disappeared into his patrol car, she threw the locks and, from the window, watched him drive off. She retreated to the middle of her den and hugged herself. The quiet felt loud, and she strained to pick up any noise that might signal danger. Maybe a hot shower would help. Except images out of a horror movie of her helpless and trapped naked in the bathroom nixed the idea. Instead, she cleaned up using the sink and changed into flannel pajama pants and a tank top.

  Alone and with hours until dawn, she wrapped herself into a ball in the middle of her bed and rocked. She didn’t own a gun—didn’t believe in it—nor had she ever played softball, so no bat. But she did have the set of ladies golf clubs her parents had given her as a graduation present.

  Why on earth they decided golf clubs signaled her leap into adulthood, she’d never understand. She’d have preferred help on the down payment for the house. No such luck there. Her parents lived in a different dimension where pesky things like mortgage bills didn’t exist.

  But, by God, a well-made golf club could take someone’s head off, and these were top-of-the-line. She scampered downstairs and hauled the ghastly pink-and-black golf bag out from the under-the-stairs storage area, the clubs tinking against one another like wind chimes.

  She discarded the putters and debated over the nine iron or a driver. The driver had a huge head but longer shaft, which made it unwieldy. The heft of the nine iron felt perfect. She paced the bottom floor, checking the door and window locks, her grip on the leather pink-and-black upper of the club lending a sense of control.

  She stretched out on the couch, curling her arms around the club like she would a teddy bear. Maybe she drifted off, maybe not, but a sound cracked the dam of her control and sent adrenaline flooding through her system. She bolted upright and tried to calm her breathing enough to hear. Was that someone at her back door?

  She grabbed her phone and the chief’s card and dialed the number he’d written on the back.

  “Chief Preston here.”

  “Hi. It’s Sadie from earlier today. The break-in.”

  “I remember, Professor Wren. What’s wrong?” He didn’t sound like she’d woken him.

  “I think I heard something.”

  “See anything?”

  “No, and I’m not going to check either. I’ve seen the movies.”

  “What movies?”

  “The ones where the cute little white girl starts down the basement stairs and then gets slashed to pieces. Uh-uh. No way. All I’ve got is a nine iron for protection, so don’t ask me to go look.”

  “I’m two minutes away. Sit tight.” He disconnected.

  Ignoring whatever menace lurked, she went to the front window and forced herself to count. Before she even made it to fifty-Mississippi, a vehicle pulled to a stop at her curb. It wasn’t an official Cottonbloom patrol car, but a dark gray truck with enormous wheels. She tensed and peeked out, hiding against the wall so whoever it was couldn’t see her shadow behind the curtain.

  A man cleared the front bumper, and she let out a long, slow breath, the muscles along her shoulders unspooling. There was no mistaking Chief Preston. She tucked the golf club under one arm and fumbled with the locks, throwing the front door open as he took the first porch step.

&nbs
p; With adrenaline still edging her too close to panic, she grabbed his shirtsleeve and tried to pull him in faster so she could get the door closed and locked once more. Her tugging didn’t seem to speed him over the threshold. His slow approach seemed deliberate, his head pivoting back and forth, taking everything in.

  “Thanks for coming.” With concerted effort, she loosened her grip but was unable to step away.

  “I had planned to check on things before I headed home anyway.” His face was cast in shadows, giving him an intimidating, ominous look, yet she wasn’t afraid of him. The protectiveness she sensed went deeper than his job description.

  Without turning on any lights, he padded to her kitchen, and she followed, unwilling to let him out of her sight. He worked her new locks and eased the door open. Night sounds filled the silence.

  He slipped out and disappeared into her back yard. She held the golf club like a bat in case something got past him. Nothing did. He was back, closing the door and testing the locks before panic overtook her.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary outside. Describe to me what you heard,” he said.

  Doubts surfaced. The noise might have been part of her dream. “I’m not sure. Maybe I didn’t hear anything.”

  His chuff could only be classified as amused exasperation. “Then why did you call me?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the lamest answer in the history of mankind.

  He hummed, and she couldn’t be sure in the dim light, but she thought his lips twitched. “A golf club, huh?”

  “Nine iron. I deliberated on the driver but decided the head was too big and the shaft too long.” Only when the words were out of her mouth did they register as distinctly sexual. And she was the one who studied Freud, for goodness’ sake. Heat bloomed through her body, but his chuckle kept the embarrassed fire from turning into an inferno.

  The sound was rough and pleasant and as attractive as his heart-stopping laugh of earlier that day. He leaned against her kitchen counter and crossed one foot over the other.