Gayle Roper - See No Evil

“Yeah?” He said as he emerged from the basement.

“Bring your light over here. Shine it on my arm.”

He did so. “You scratched yourself.”

I shook my head. “That’s the drip.”

“But it’s—”

I nodded.

He swung his penlight, and the beam picked out a red puddle on the floor, drops plummeting from above to splash in the viscous pool. A footprint repeated across the floor, getting fainter and fainter with each step until it was almost nonexistent when it stopped at my left shoe.

He trained the beam overhead, and a woman’s pale hand appeared, flung out over the opening. Gray and I looked at each other in dismay, knowing that where there was a hand, there was a body attached.

has always loved stories, and as a result she’s authored forty books. Gayle has won the Romance Writers of America’s RITA ®Award for Best Inspirational Romance, repeatedly been a finalist for both the RITA ®Award and the Christy Award, won three Holt Medallions, the Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Inspirational Readers Choice Contest and a Lifetime Achievement Award as well as the Award of Excellence. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to the training of writers. Her articles have appeared in numerous periodicals, including Discipleship Journal and Moody Magazine, and she has contributed chapters and short stories to several anthologies. She enjoys speaking at writers’ conferences and women’s events, reading and eating out. She adores her kids and grandkids, and loves her own personal patron of the arts, her husband, Chuck.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

—Jeremiah 29:11–12

To Chuck,

my own personal patron of the arts,

for all the years of your stalwart love and support

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

“Anna Volente, keep your mind on your work.”

How many times in the past had I heard those words from my dad or mom or one of my teachers? Even from Glenn, now that I thought about it, though I tried to think of him as little as possible. Of course I knew I should be concentrating on the project at hand, the hanging of the window treatment I held.

But how could I ignore the strange man skulking in the backyard of the unfinished house kitty-corner from the backyard of the completed model home I was working in?

He wasn’t one of the construction workers. I was certain of that. They had all gone home a couple of hours ago, lunchboxes and thermoses in hand, leaving me alone to finish my work in the warm, sultry August evening. The prowling man wasn’t dressed right for building anything either. He wore khakis and a red short-sleeved polo shirt hanging outside his slacks. I couldn’t tell from this distance if the dark mark he had over his heart was an alligator or a pony or a spot of dried gravy from his dinner.

I studied him. His clothes might be ordinary, but there was something not quite right about him, though I couldn’t decide what it was with the lowering sun shining so brightly in my eyes. I raised my hand to shield my eyes.

Was he just moving awkwardly, like someone who had a sprained ankle, or was he really skulking? Either way, as far as I knew, at this time of day no one should be anywhere near any of the houses in this very new, very upscale development. I excluded myself, of course.

From high on my ladder at the tall back window of the living room which ran the depth of the model house, I eyed the interloper. If I’d been hanging one of the front or side windows, I wouldn’t have seen him. If I’d been standing on the floor, I wouldn’t have seen him. The fence across the backyard and the plantings artistically fronting it, especially the weeping cherry, would have blocked him from view.

I frowned. Should I tell someone about him? Call someone?

Oh, Mr. or Ms. 911 Person, there’s a man walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedom’s Chase.

And what is this man doing?

Walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedom’s Chase.

That’s it? Call me back when he does something illegal, okay?

But isn’t trespassing illegal?

Then again, what if he was just looking around with the idea of buying a house here?

“How much longer will you be?”

The question, asked from behind me in a very male, rather abrupt voice, startled me, and I almost lost my precarious footing. I put a hand out and caught the upper sash to steady myself. With my sudden movement and less firm grip on the material, the heavy window treatment I held began to slip from my grasp. The slick silk flowed south with determination, a fabric Mississippi heading for the wooden Gulf of Mexico.

“No!” I couldn’t let that wonderful fabric get all wrinkled, maybe even damaged, not after all the hours I’d put in working on it. I lunged for it, the man outside forgotten, the man inside ignored.

Then the curtain was forgotten too as I belatedly realized that you can’t lunge when high on a stepladder. Maybe, I thought desperately as I flailed my arms, I could sort of step backwards and find the floor without falling flat on my back or stepping on the precious material. Of course that would be quite a step; the floor was several feet down.

“Watch it! You’re going to fall!” the man behind me yelled helpfully.

Tell me something I don’t know!

I scrunched my eyes shut as I felt myself plummet in a graceful sort of slow motion, at least until gravity got hold of me. Then it became full speed ahead.

Lord, don’t let it hurt too much!

How would I ever finish my decorating job if I broke my leg—or broke anything, for that matter? And then there was school, which started Monday. How could an art teacher ever manage one hundred and fifty-plus intermediate school kids and all the supplies for their various projects while on crutches? I could barely hold my own on two feet.

Suddenly strong hands grabbed me none too gently about the middle. The man they belonged to staggered under my weight, not the most complimentary thing that ever happened to me, but he didn’t go down. Thanks to him, neither did I. No broken legs after all. Just wounded vanity.

He set me unceremoniously on my feet. Yards of glorious Scalamandré fabric billowed about us. I watched as it settled on the floor, burying my sneakers and his dirty workboots.

“Be careful,” I cried. “Don’t move. Don’t get that fabric dirty! It costs a fortune.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. I got the bill yesterday.”

I carefully lifted the drapery off his boots, laying it over one of the plaid slipper chairs. I examined it minutely and couldn’t see any dirt on the pale-cream background. Relief washed over me.