Low Pressure

“Are you okay?”

She gave an affirmative nod, but he didn’t believe her.

“You look all…” He gestured toward her face. “Was it the flight? Did it mess you up that bad?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He hesitated, wondering why he didn’t just hand her the book and tell her to shove it where the sun don’t shine, as he’d come here to do, then turn and walk away. For good. Forever and ever, amen.

He had a strong premonition that if he stayed for one second longer, he would live to regret it. But despite the impulse to get the hell out of there and away from her and all things Lyston, he gave the door a gentle push, which she resisted. He pushed harder until she let go and the door swung wide.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

The central hallway behind her looked like it had been the site of a ticker-tape parade. The glossy hardwood floor was littered with scraps of paper. Brushing past her, he went in, bent down, and picked up one of the larger pieces. It was the corner of a page; T. J. David was printed on it, along with a page number.

“You found it like this when you got home?”

“I was just a few minutes ahead of you,” she replied. “This is as far as I got.”

Dent’s first thought was that the intruder might still be inside the house. “Alarm system?”

“The house doesn’t have one. I only moved in a couple of weeks ago.” She gestured toward sealed boxes stacked against the wall. “I haven’t even finished unpacking.”

“Your husband isn’t here?”

The question seemed to confuse her at first, then she stammered, “No. I mean… I don’t… I’m divorced.”

Huh. He tucked that away for future consideration. “Call nine-one-one. I’ll take a look around.”

“Dent—”

“I’ll be okay.”

He set the copy of her novel on the console table, then continued down the central hallway past a dining room and a living room, which opened off of it on opposite sides. The hall led him to the back of the house, where he found the kitchen and utility room. The door to the yard was standing open. The locking mechanism dangled from a neat round hole in the door.

A striped cat curiously peered around the jamb. Upon seeing Dent, it skedaddled. Being careful not to touch anything, he stepped out onto a concrete stoop, where a bag of potting soil and a stack of terra-cotta flowerpots stood against the exterior wall of the house. One of the pots had been broken. Pieces of it lay on the steps leading down to the ground. The fenced yard was empty.

He figured the house-breaker was no longer a threat, but he wanted to check the upstairs anyway. He retraced his steps through the kitchen and back into the wide hallway. Bellamy was standing where he’d left h

er, cell phone in hand.

“I think he came and went through the utility room door. I’m gonna check upstairs.”

He climbed them quickly. The first door on his left opened into a spare bedroom, which she obviously planned on using as an office. The computer setup on the trestle table appeared to have been left undisturbed, but, as in the entryway below, pages of her book had been made into confetti and strewn everywhere. He checked the closet, but there was nothing in it except boxes packed with basic office supplies.

Midway down the hall, a quaint pair of doors with glass panes stood open. He walked through them into Bellamy’s bedroom. Here, he drew up short. The room had been vandalized, but not with confetti.

Hastily he checked the closet, where he found clothes and shoes, several unpacked boxes, and a lingering floral scent. The bathroom was likewise empty except for the cream-colored fixtures, fluffy towels, and feminine accoutrements on the dressing table.

He returned to the bedroom’s double doors and called down to her. “Coast is clear, but you’d better come up.”

Moments later she joined him, doing exactly as he’d done when he walked in. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

“I take it that’s not part of the decor.”