After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

And the reason she was so cold? The air conditioner was working overtime, blowing cold air through the room. That was one of the problems with this place, the temperature. Always either hot or cold.

“You’re a freak show,” she muttered as she walked into the hallway and flipped the switch to turn off the cool air. Now fully awake, she made her way to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and reached inside for a bottle of water.

Thud!

The noise came from her living room.

She dropped the bottle. “Who’s there?” she called out immediately, then closed the refrigerator door, the kitchen once again cloaked in darkness.

No response.

But she felt a presence.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

Her throat was dry and hot.

Stealthily she let her fingers crawl across the counter top until she found the block holding her knives. Her heart was in her throat as she withdrew a long blade and then noiselessly moved from the kitchen to the archway leading to the living area.

The apartment was still.

Without the air from the air conditioner, all Cassie could hear was the crazy knocking of her heart accompanied by her own shallow breathing. But someone was inside, she knew it.

Her fingers clamped around the knife’s hilt so tightly that they began to ache. She gazed over the counter, into the darkened living room and thought she spied movement, a darker shadow in the surrounding umbra.

She hardly dared breathe.

Where was her cell phone?

She needed to call 9-1-1.

She flashed on the cell hooked to her charger it on the night stand in her bedroom.

Too far. She’d have to pass by the living area again and now the intruder knew she was onto him.

Panic rose. Who was inside? What did he want? Why was he here?

Think, Cassie, think!

Get out. Get out, now!

If she could just get around the corner of the kitchen, to the front hall where she could hit the switch and race out the door . . . Oh, God, were those eyes staring back at her, reflecting the barest of light filtering in from the living room window? She didn’t wait to find out.

Adrenaline firing her blood, she tore around the refrigerator, her feet landing on the tile of the small entry. Clutching the butcher knife in one hand, she flipped on the lights in the foyer with the other, and opened the door.

The unlocked door. She knew she’d thrown the bolt before heading to bed. Oh, God, oh, God, oh God!

The ceiling fixtures flashed on. Bright light nearly blinded her. Holding the knife in front of her with both hands, she fell back a step onto the porch but saw no one in the apartment. No malicious figure appeared. No killer with murderous intent showed himself. For a second she thought she’d imagined it all, that her nightmare had confused her.

So here she was, standing on her porch, butcher knife in hand feeling like a complete idiot and—

She saw the eyes, peering out of the open closet door. Unblinking. Near the floor. Glaring.

Her heart stopped as she tried to imagine what it was.

An animal?