The Visitor. Amanda Stevens
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Prescott arrived to ask questions. I would have preferred Devlin, of course, but I hadn’t been able to reach him.
This detective looked to be in his mid-to late forties with thinning hair and a condescending attitude that did nothing to put me at ease.
The first thing he did was to jot down my name, address and phone number in a small notebook he pulled from his pocket. Then he took a position at the foot of my bed, where he could peer down at me. Whether he had placed himself there deliberately to intimidate me, I couldn’t say, but his impervious stare unnerved me.
“I know you already gave a statement to the responding officer, but I’m going to need you to take me through it again,” he said.
“Okay.” I was happy that I could think a little more clearly now that the chattering in my head had subsided. “Something roused me from sleep. I don’t know what it was because I don’t remember hearing anything. But I woke up with a feeling that something wasn’t right in the house. So I got up to investigate.”
“You didn’t think about calling 911?”
“No, not then. It’s an old house and there are a lot of night noises.” And at that point I hadn’t thought the intruder human.
The door to my room opened just then and I felt a familiar tingle up my spine, a rush of hot blood through my veins that always signaled Devlin’s arrival.
He strode in—tall, lean, purposeful—and the air seemed to crackle with electricity as he moved toward me.
Maybe it was my tattered nerves or the position from which I stared up at him, but Devlin looked larger than life and far more formidable than I would have imagined under the circumstances.
In that charged air, a shiver whispered up my backbone. Even the other detective seemed to sense the shift in energy and he scowled warily as Devlin closed the distance between the door and my bed.
He was as impeccably dressed as ever in monochromatic shades of gray and charcoal, colors that brought out the premature strands of silver at his temples. His hair was mussed, as though he’d run impatient fingers through it on the way up to my floor, and his unshaven jaw gave him a rakish air that I did not find at all unattractive.
Because of the ghosts, I learned at an early age how to calm myself in times of great stress, but Devlin’s sudden appearance had a profound effect on me. A knot rose in my throat as our gazes locked, but I tried to shake off my emotional response to him. It was very important that he not think of me as weak or vulnerable, that he never need worry about my mental state as he undoubtedly had with Mariama.
“Hello” was all I said.
“Hello to you, too. Are you okay?”
“Yes, it’s nothing serious. A few bumps and bruises.” I nodded to the man at the end of the bed. “I assume you know Detective Prescott?”
Devlin’s gaze flicked over me and darkened before he turned to Prescott. “A word, Detective?”
The older cop gave him an irritated scowl. “I’m in the middle of an interview.”
“I’ll be brief.”
Prescott nodded curtly and walked to the door. From past observations, I knew that Devlin commanded the respect of his peers, but the privileges and connections that came with his background also bred a certain amount of resentment.
The two men conversed in the hallway for a few moments and then Prescott returned to the foot of my bed while Devlin took up a position at the window.
“Did the suspect speak to you?” Prescott asked. “Did he grunt or groan during the struggle? Did you hear anything that would identify him as male?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I blacked out for a moment. I thought I heard a voice, but it seemed dreamlike. I’m not even sure it was real.”
“What did this voice say to you?”
I strained to recall. “I don’t remember.”
“Nothing at all?” he pressed.
I shook my head.
Prescott exchanged a look with Devlin. “You described the assailant as being a little under six feet and thin. He wore a mask over his head.”
“Yes, like a ski mask.” I gestured vaguely toward my face. “I couldn’t see anything but his eyes.”
“So you never got a look at him. Under the circumstances, you can’t be one hundred percent certain the suspect was male, can you?”
“No, I suppose not. I just assumed...the way he attacked me—”
“What about smells?” Prescott interjected. “Cologne? Perfume?”
“I didn’t notice any.” Which was odd given my recent sensitivity to scents.
“Rings, watches?”
I shook my head.
“Scars, tattoos?”
“It all happened so fast and it was dark inside the house...” My gaze strayed back to Devlin. He stood with his back to the window, arms folded, head slightly bowed. I felt a quiver go through me at his unwavering concentration. Would I ever get used to the fierceness of that stare?
Prescott said something to me then and I had to wrench my gaze from Devlin’s. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
“Have you seen any suspicious cars in the neighborhood? Any strangers lurking about?”
“No, but I live on a busy street. I might not notice anyone new.”
“Do you have any idea what the suspect was after?”
“I don’t keep cash in the house, and the only items of any real value are my laptop and cameras, some equipment I use for work, a pearl necklace. Nothing that could be sold for very much money.”
Prescott shrugged. “He may not have needed a lot. A hundred bucks can keep a meth head buzzed for a couple of days.”
“What makes you think he was looking for drug money?” I asked.
“The way he went after you,” Devlin answered, drawing another frown from Prescott. “It’s not unusual for a meth addict to display extreme aggression, especially if he feels cornered or threatened.”
“Yes, I’ve read that,” I said. “So you think the break-in was random?”
“I didn’t say that.” Devlin’s eyes were so fathomless I hadn’t a clue what he was thinking. “What I am saying is that the suspect’s behavior wasn’t rational. You said he leaped over the desk to get at you and he kept coming even when you fought back. He could have escaped through the same door he entered when he saw you, but instead he pursued you despite the ski mask he wore to hide his features.”
My mind spun back to the attack. The assailant had been relentless, but his behavior hadn’t struck me as frenetic. To the contrary, he’d seemed in control and coldly determined.
I said none of this aloud, however, because I was anxious for Prescott to leave so that I could have a private conversation with Devlin.
To my relief, the detective closed his notebook and returned the pen to his pocket. “You’ll need to come in and sign your statement once you’re released from the hospital. In the meantime, if you remember anything else, give me a call.”
Devlin followed him out of the room and a moment later, I again heard their voices in the hallway.
I was tempted to climb out of bed and eavesdrop at the door, but the effort seemed beyond my strength. Every