Danger at Her Door. Beth Cornelison
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raked his fingers through his hair, searching for the tidbit that would tip the scales in his favor. He hoped that mentioning the Herald, the other newspaper in town, would appeal to Burt’s competitive nature.
“I’m sending Parker.” Burt hesitated and sighed. “But you can pick up the story in the morning. After I see what you and Parker each bring to the story, I’ll make my final assignment. Don’t let me down on this, Jack. This is the biggest story to break in this town for months.”
“I hear you, Burt. And I won’t let you down.”
The next morning, Megan stared at the men lined up behind the one-way glass and fought the urge to throw up. Anxiety, anger and frustration twisted inside her until she thought she might shatter under the pressure.
But not now. Right now she had to pull herself together. She had a job to do. The sooner she did her job, the sooner she could get out of the small room where the walls seemed to close in on her. The stale odor of cigarettes and the noxious fumes of floor cleaner hung in the air, contributing to her queasiness.
More unsettling were all the uniforms gathered around her, the men with guns on their hips and badges on their chests.
Policemen are our friends, she’d taught her class on career day. They protect us and help us during emergencies.
But the man who had attacked her had exploited her trust in a police uniform, used that trust to get inside her home. And the sea of blue uniforms was a too-vivid reminder of the army of officers who’d replied to her 911 call and tramped through her home gathering evidence. They’d asked endless questions when all she wanted to do was block out the horrid images and escape the sounds replaying in her head.
Beside her, Ginny hovered quietly, her hand on Megan’s shoulder in a silent show of support.
“Do you recognize anything about any of them?” The police detective in the dark room with them asked his questions in low, modulated tones. Ginny and the detective had taken pains to make Megan’s task as easy on her as possible. Still, the notion that one of the men in the next room, lined up for her inspection, could be the man who’d haunted her for five years sent a chill slithering down her spine.
When she tried to answer, no sound left her mouth. After clearing her throat, Megan tried again. “I recognize number three. He’s the man I saw on the news last night.”
The detective shifted his weight and scribbled in the small notebook in his hand.
“But—” Her gaze remained locked on the glowering faces behind the window.
In the periphery of her vision, the detective stopped writing and raised his head. “But what?”
Drawing a slow, shaky breath, she shoved down her discouragement. “I can’t say with any conviction that he, or any of the others, is the man who—” When Megan faltered, Ginny reached for her hand and squeezed it. “The man who raped me.”
Facing the detective, Megan sighed. “God knows I wish I could. But the man who attacked me had a lightning bolt tattoo on his forearm. And…he was balding and—”
A shudder race through her, remembering the face that she’d worked five years to erase from her nightmares. “He’s not any of those men.”
“You’re sure?”
She heard frustration in the detective’s voice. With a nod, she glanced back at the lineup of men, and the knots in her stomach tightened. The man she recognized from the television stared straight ahead. His light gray eyes stabbed her like shards of flint.
As cold and frightening as his pale glare was, the menacing eyes she recalled so vividly from the night of her attack had been dark brown, almost black. The man in the lineup had no decoration on his arm, nor any scar indicating the removal of a lightning bolt tattoo. Though she wanted to believe her assailant had been caught, the inconsistencies led her to the only conclusion that made sense.
Her rapist still walked the street.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. “Wanting him to be the right one doesn’t make him so.”
The detective nodded and shoved away from the wall where he’d propped during her viewing. “All right. Thank you for coming down, Miss Hoffman. The officer at the desk will have some papers for you to sign. That’s all.”
Megan raised her head as the officer opened the door and held it for her and Ginny. “I’m sorry.”
Ginny frowned at her and tucked a wisp of her pale blond hair behind her ear. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Lifting Megan’s purse from the floor, Ginny handed her the bag and met Megan’s gaze with unwavering certainty in her blue eyes. “You’re not to blame for anything that’s happened since the day that bastard hurt you. This guy doesn’t fit the description of your assailant, and you’ve done nothing wrong by saying so.”
Megan slid her purse strap over her shoulder and flashed her blond friend a weak smile. “Right, right. I know that. I do.”
“I know you know it. I want you to believe it.”
“I’m working on that part.” Before her friend could respond, Megan hurried through the open door and into the corridor, eager to escape the confines of the dark, stuffy room. She spotted the ladies’ room down the hall and made a beeline for it.
She barely got the stall door closed before her stomach pitched and heaved.
“Megan? Are you all right?” Ginny called to her.
Wiping her mouth with a wad of toilet paper, she sagged against the side of the stall. “Just dandy.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
Bless Ginny’s heart. How could she have survived any of this horror without Ginny’s levelheaded reassurance and unflappable friendship? Opening the door, Megan staggered out of the stall and to the sink to rinse out her mouth. “Do you have a breath mint or a piece of gum?”
Ginny rummaged through her purse and extracted a roll of peppermint Life Savers. “How about one of these?”
Megan splashed water on her face then nodded. “Perfect.”
“All in the line of duty.” The blonde rubbed Megan’s arm. “Feel better now or would you like to sit down somewhere?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I just want to sign those papers and get out of here.” Megan popped one of the mints in her mouth and glanced in the mirror as she reached for a paper towel to dry her face. Her complexion seemed waxy and pale, and puffy bags under her eyes testified to her sleepless night. Her liberal use of water to cool her cheeks left her mascara smudged and damp tendrils of her hair plastered against her neck. In short, she looked a wreck.
Wadding the paper towel in a ball, she jammed it in the trash by the restroom door and followed Ginny out to the front desk. The officer at the desk handed her several forms to sign. She scratched her name in sprawling script in the designated blanks, eager to shake the dust of this morning’s task from her sandals and go home.
“Megan?”
She lifted her gaze to find a familiar pair of hazel eyes studying her, and her pulse went haywire.
Jack Calhoun.
Chapter 3
“Jack,” Megan whispered, drawing a shaky breath.
Just yesterday this man’s nearly naked body and warm smile had awakened long-dormant desires deep inside her. Today, his coffee-brown hair brushed the collar of a wrinkled, white button-down shirt, and he wore a pair of loose-fitting khaki pants. But Megan could still see his wide, chiseled torso and muscular legs in her mind’s eye, and the mental image snagged the breath in her lungs.
He stuck out his hand for her to shake. “Hey, neighbor. I thought that was you.”
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