Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

I stopped dead, my stomach tight with fear, then soundlessly took a giant step to the opposite wall and flattened against the wall. I edged toward the office, positioning myself behind by the door so that if someone came through, I’d be hidden—or so I hoped.

A female voice spoke. Definitely Hamilton.

Then a man responded—he was not as close as she seemed to be—but I couldn’t understand either one of them. Could she have brought Feldman with her? Was the man I’d been hunting for in the next room?

Quick steps echoed beyond the door. Then I heard a familiar computer-generated ding. One of them was at the desk on the other side of this door.

And my right shoulder was no more than a foot from the hinges. I could feel my pulse hammering at my neck.

And then I heard her clearly. Sounding exasperated, Hamilton said, “The stupid security system is off. Second time that’s happened. I’ll switch to manual on the way out.”

Her companion said something indecipherable. He must have been standing way on the other side of the room, close to the front door.

Hamilton then said, “I left the copy of the check in the machine. Wait here while I get it.”

A copy of the check? Kate’s check? God, I hoped not.

I made myself as pancakelike as possible, anticipating Hamilton coming on through.

And she did, the open door stopping within an inch of my cheek. Sweat dribbled down the hollow of my back, and I pressed against the wall, holding my breath.

She clacked into the room across from me, came back out quickly, and exited, shutting the hall door.

I slowly exhaled.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got to find out about this Katherine Rose. She was no more sick than I am.”

Damn. Kate did write a check, and Hamilton had copied it.

Once again I heard a barely audible reply. After the lock turned, I counted to sixty before stepping out, wanting to be sure they were gone. I cracked the door to the foyer.

Without thinking again.

Hamilton had clearly said she’d activated the security system manually, and as soon as that door opened, an almost imperceptible whine started up. A not-quite-silent alarm.

I was knee-deep in manure now. I needed that videotape and then I needed out of here. The police or the hired security people would be arriving any minute.

I sprinted back down the hall and dragged a chair from the nearby kitchen, climbed up, and ran my hands along the outside of the camera.

Come on, come on! Where’s the tape?

I paused, hands trembling, telling myself to calm down.

After taking a few seconds to slow my shallow, rapid breaths, I was able to locate and remove the palm-size tape.

I hurried into the kitchen and confronted a locked dead bolt. No surprise. But the alarm was already activated, so a broken window wouldn’t matter now. In fact, a broken window would be expected.

I smashed through the nearest pane with a broom, but cut my trailing leg when I climbed out. I felt a sting, then a warm stickiness on my shin.

Dark clouds rumbled angrily above me, but thank goodness the rain hadn’t resumed. I glanced around the small fenced yard, seeking the best escape route. Poor Kate was parked on the next block over, probably close to having a heart attack about now. And maybe I’d just join her.

I pocketed the tape and raced across to the hurricane fence. I gripped the top and I hoisted myself up. But one side of my shorts caught on a protrusion when I came over to the other side.

I was stuck. Hung like wash on the line.

Dangling there on that fence, I told myself to forget about the eight ball. I was behind the whole rack.

I glanced toward the house, expecting someone to rush out that back door. Galveston Island is only twelve miles long, so someone should have already arrived in response to the alarm.

I clung to the fence with one hand, and, craning around, I saw that one prong had twisted the fabric of my shorts into a knot when I swung my legs over.

All I could do was let go, hoping the cotton would give. And so I did, and immediately heard the wonderful sound of ripping fabric. I landed on my rear with a thud.

Jeez, that hurt!

I stood, realizing my shorts had split down one side, all the way up to my waist. Great. I could run around the neighborhood, clothes torn, leg bleeding, gasping for breath, then maintain my innocence if stopped for questioning.

I crouched behind a large ligustrum alongside the fence, trying to figure out how to deal with this new dilemma. Looking around, I saw a reclining lawn chair ten feet away. A magazine, a pair of sunglasses, and a glass of tea, the ice melted long ago, sat on the ground next to it. The chair and drink had probably been abandoned when the first rain fell earlier.

Hmm... Could I pull this off?

I looked down at my tattered shorts. They would be impossible to ignore if I were spotted leaving here. I might as well have fugitive printed across my forehead in lipstick. So I did the only thing I could do: I took my clothes off, tossing them under the chair, along with my sandals.

But my underwear would never pass for a bathing suit. Too much lace. So off they came as well. Self-preservation takes priority over modesty any day.

I donned the sunglasses, laid my shirt over the cut on my leg, and assumed the lounge position—something I’d definitely practiced before. I slowed my breathing so the frantic heaving of my chest wouldn’t give me away, then opened the magazine strategically across my torso. Unlike Steven, who was good-looking enough to have a legitimate shot at showing off his body in glossy splendor, this might be my only chance at a staple in my navel.

I closed my eyes, and a second later, as expected, a voice hailed me from the other side of the fence.

“Ma’am? Pardon me for disturbing you, but—”

I opened my eyes, let my mouth fall open in appropriate shock, and allowed the magazine to slip an inch. “Where did you come from?” I said, feigning surprise. “And my goodness, what time is it?” I peered at my watch.

“Uh, I’m really sorry,” he said. He came up to the fence and then, realizing I was naked, focused on the ground. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone running out of your neighbor’s yard within the last ten minutes?”

“No. I must have fallen asleep. Is there a problem?”

“Could be.” He had a five-o’clock shadow and a pot-belly, and he was peeking at me—one eye open, one squeezed shut. “Pretty cloudy for sunbathing. Uh, why don’t I turn around while you put your clothes on?”

I sighed. “If it will make you more comfortable.” After he turned away, I watched him rock nervously back and forth from his toes to his heels, hat held behind his back.

I put on my underwear, then said, “I’ve read you get a much better tan if you lie out when it’s overcast. Have you heard that, Officer?”

“Seems I did once,” he answered, rubbing his bald head with the hand holding the hat.

Before I lay back down, I spied a smear of blood on my shin, so I placed the magazine over my legs this time. “Okay,” I said. “All clear.”

He turned and, seeing I was still not fully clothed, pivoted back. “Not exactly all clear,” he mumbled, his earlobes coloring.

“Come on, Officer. Don’t make me put those sweaty clothes back on. Galveston’s a beach town. People walk around undressed all day.”

He slowly faced me, obviously pleased with this rationalization. I noticed that his badge said, Guardian Angel Security.

“Guess you’re right,” he said. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

He ogled me shamelessly now, but I figured it was a small price to pay for sneaking into closets uninvited.