Susan Sleeman - Christmas Conspiracy

She turned on the shower, cranked the knob to steaming hot and climbed under the spray. The water cascaded over her back and circled the drain. She grabbed a bar of soap. The slippery slice shot from her hands and pinged around the tile walls until it landed at her feet. Bending to retrieve it, dizziness assaulted her again. She planted her hands on her knees and held her position to let it clear. Thankfully, most of the drug had left her system and she could function, but she wished it would dissipate even faster.

Maybe then she wouldn’t be so emotional and weepy around Detective Hunter and Jake. She just couldn’t imagine that either of them truly believed she had participated in Kelly’s attempted kidnapping. Waking up at the center came to mind, the sight of Jake’s caring face, his smile and concern. Then he’d held Kelly out so she could see the baby was fine. Joy had nearly burst her heart and she’d thought him to be an ally.

And now?

Until the detective proved Rachael had no part in the attempted kidnapping, she would be alone in her defense—much like she was alone in life. For the first time since she’d come to grips with losing Eli and the baby, the loneliness nearly bothered her more than she could bear.

Tears threatened again, burning at the back of her eyes for release.

No. She wouldn’t let them take over. She didn’t want to be stuffed up for her phone calls. She could let herself cry after her families were taken care of.

She slowly stood and grabbed a washcloth to scrub the horrible attack from her body. As the cloth ran over her skin, she imagined his touch sliding away. By the time she finished and dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, the bruised areas were clean and aching even more, but she felt refreshed.

She headed to the foyer table to grab a few aspirin to take the edge off her pain.

She stepped into the family room and something red on the mirror above the fireplace caught her attention. She focused. Spotted big bold letters scribbled on the glass.

A message.

Talk and You Die.

She took a step back, clasped a hand over her mouth. He gaze shot around the room, looking for the intruder. She spotted her favorite lipstick laying open on the floor.

Terror stole her breath. Her throat closed down as if hands had come around her neck and squeezed.

She took another step back. Then another. And another.

She was aware of screams coming from somewhere.

They had to be from her, but she could barely breathe. How could she be the one screaming?

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