Whirling, she expected the image to have disappeared, the phantom to have vanished, a figment of her wild imagination.
But she was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Crouching in the corner, glaring at her with hateful eyes that caught the weakest light was a woman.
What?
Cassie nearly screamed.
Oh. Jesus.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her heart in her throat as the features, in the dark, came into view. Dark hair, wide eyes, arched cheeks, but all distorted in the gloom. Dear God, it was a shadowy image of herself, a twin.
She bit back a scream.
Realized the woman had a gun trained on her.
In a second she would pull the trigger and take off the mask and—no! Her eyes widened as she stared at the woman staring back at her. Her own gun was raised and shaking in her hands. And . . . and the assailant’s pistol was raised and shivering and . . . She blinked. And fired, just as she noticed the clothes and the expression on the terrified woman’s features were identical to her own before the woman shattered into a million pieces.
The roar of gunfire sent the horses screaming and kicking. Cassie’s own heart nearly stopped as she was sprayed with bits of glass, the mirror that had been propped into the corner decimated.
She hadn’t come upon a murderous assailant. No! She’d shot at her own damned, shuddering, gun-toting reflection. Oh, God, she was losing it! And not by inches, but miles. Her headache pounded, threatening to consume her, and her ankle wasn’t getting any better. She needed to find Trent, get the hell out of the barn and make tracks. Let the police sort out whatever it was that had gone on here. She let out a breath slowly. She had to find Trent and get the hell out of here. Now she was jumping at shadows and . . . and . . .
Scraaape.
Over the sound of the horses, wind, and her own frantically thumping heart, she thought she heard a footstep.
Crrrunnch.
Another one, this time on the shattered glass! And to her horror, in the jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the mirror’s frame, she saw that she, indeed, wasn’t alone. Behind her, caught in the reflection, was a partial image of a woman.
And she, too, was armed, a bit of a gun visible in one shard.
Their eyes met.
The gun was leveled.
From his position in the stall, Trent, woozy from the loss of blood, thought he heard footsteps . . . not one set, but two. Each pair coming from a different direction.
What did that mean?
Did the assassin have an accomplice?
Or did the second set of soft footprints belong to Cassie?
Oh, Jesus. Would she have come out here after she heard the report of the gun? Would she have been that stupid? Dear God, he hoped not. He silently prayed that she had the presence of mind to call the police and then get the hell out. Drive away.
But then he knew better.
Fuck!
Damn that woman! Why couldn’t she ever do what she was told?
Because she’s Cassie Kramer, that’s why.
With an effort he drew himself to his feet, steadied himself for a second, tried to get his bearings and nearly passed out. He waited until the wave of blackness receded and took several deep breaths. Dragging his bad leg, he made his way to the edge of his stall, the one farthest from the silo. He was dizzy as hell and used a post for support. He’d lost his phone when he’d been shot, it had skittered across the floor and was hidden somewhere, probably inoperable. Geez, he’d bungled this. All because he’d been ridiculously stupid thinking an animal and not a prowler had been on the farm. He’d thought the rifle and dog would be enough protection.