Her Stolen Past. Lynette Eason
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been especially hard. I was just thinking about something.”
“Something that put you in a bad mood obviously.”
Brandon felt his lips twitch. Holt never had a bad day. Or if he did, he didn’t let on. “Do you have something that’s going to improve my mood?”
“Thought you weren’t in a bad mood.”
“I said I wasn’t grumpy. I didn’t say anything about my mood.”
Holt laughed and Brandon’s small smile curved higher. “Well?”
“I got a print off the letter.”
“You’re right. My mood just got better. Any matches?”
“No, sorry. Whoever the print belongs to isn’t in the system.”
“You just tanked my mood.”
Holt chuckled then turned serious again. “Nothing from your condo, either. Your intruder had on gloves.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’ll stay in touch and let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Thanks.”
Brandon hung up and looked at the clock again, realized what he was doing and rolled his eyes. His uncharacteristic impatience had him cranky and irritable in spite of his denials to Holt.
But he finally admitted his impatience stemmed from his desire to see Sonya again. He grabbed his keys and his phone and headed out the door. He’d be early, but at least he’d be moving instead of staring like a lovesick schoolboy at the clock on his desk.
* * *
At 4:55 in the afternoon, Sonya waved to Frankie Lee, her subtle bodyguard who leaned against the wall and pretended to read a magazine. He returned her wave with a nod and she gathered her things. He sauntered over and pushed the door to the locker room open. “Anyone in here?”
“Just me.” Gerri Aimes exited the locker room and gave Frankie the once-over. He seemed to meet her approval because she winked at Sonya. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” Sonya didn’t bother to correct her coworker’s misunderstanding about who Frankie was. Instead, she stepped into the empty room where she’d change into her street clothes and freshen up a bit before heading down to meet Brandon. Just the thought made her smile. In spite of Brandon’s observation that she didn’t smile much. She’d noticed lately that when she thought of him, her lips automatically curved upward. She had to admit, too, that while on the job, she occasionally used the smile Brandon called fake. Even that was better than a frown. Or an expressionless facade.
Hospice could be such a heavy place. No one who came to hospice left alive, and families were grieving—some openly, some hiding it well. Others were angry that the medical staff couldn’t miraculously heal the dying loved one.
Sonya didn’t take it personally, but dealing with them didn’t make it any less emotionally draining. And while smiling usually came naturally to her, lately, it had been hard to find something to smile about. She was glad to let her lips relax in the privacy of the locker room.
Not everyone could do her job. She knew that and took comfort in the fact that she was needed even if being needed did come with a high emotional price tag. But she loved what she did and the families she worked with. So she coped with prayer and offered comforting embraces and empathetic tears.
Watching her parents die had given Sonya the desire to reach out to others, to let them know she knew exactly what they were going through. And offer genuine smiles when she could find them.
Some days she saw the results of her efforts. Other days she just prayed she’d made a difference.
Today was one of those days, so she prayed while she changed.
She would see Brandon in five minutes. Give or take a minute or two. She’d gotten permission to leave early, stating she had a personal issue to take care of.
Her nerves hummed and her brain whirled. Who were the Bradleys? What if she was Heather? Her throat tightened at the thought. No way. There just had to be a reasonable explanation for everything. Didn’t there?
She finished changing and closed the locker door. Another locker door shut with a click.
Footsteps to her left.
The lights went out.
In the dark, Sonya froze and listened. The inky blackness pressed in on her. “Hello?” She thought she was the sole occupant of the locker room since she was the only one leaving two hours before the shift ended.
Had the entire hospital lost power? But why hadn’t the generator kicked in?
She moved with shuffling steps toward the door, not wanting to bang her knees on the benches.
Another footfall landed somewhere in front of her, between her and the door. She stopped, her heart picking up speed. “Who’s there?”
When she didn’t get an answer, but knew someone was definitely in the room with her, her heart kicked it up another notch. With all of the strange things that had happened lately, she wasn’t taking any stupid chances.
Sonya shut her mouth and moved sideways. She hit a bench and set her bag on it. She wanted to reach in the bag and search for her cell phone, but didn’t dare make the noise she’d have to make in order to find the thing.
So, making no sound, she twisted the strap of her purse around her fingers and stepped around the bench, her soft-soled tennis shoes quiet on the tile floor.
With her pulse pounding in her ears, she moved toward the door once again, hoping whoever had been there seconds before had moved. Another muffled scrape reached her. The person still blocked Sonya’s exit.
She slipped back and into one of the bathroom stalls. And wondered if that was possibly the dumbest thing she could have done.
* * *
At ten after five, Brandon started to get a little nervous. Where was she? He was parked at the top of the circle next to the front door where she said she’d meet him. Maybe she’d gotten held up. He tried her number and frowned when she didn’t answer. He called Frankie. “Where’s Sonya?”
“She’s changing in the locker room. Taking her a while, though. I was just getting ready to check on her.”
“Did you clear it before she went in?”
“I did. Another woman was in there and came out when Sonya went in.”
Brandon waffled. “Give her another minute then knock on the door.” He should have put a woman on her. Would have made it easier to keep tabs on her in the bathrooms.
“Of course.”
Brandon waited for all of fifteen seconds, then got out of his car and headed for the entrance. He was probably overreacting but he’d rather play it safe. He couldn’t believe how worried he was. Telling himself he was being silly, that Frankie had it under control, he nevertheless hurried to the elevator.
* * *
Sonya held her breath then let it out in a slow, soundless hiss. She’d lost track of how many seconds—minutes?—had passed since she’d stepped into the stall. Two? Three? And yet, she heard nothing. No footsteps, no one breathing. Nothing.
She was beginning to think it really was her imagination after all, but her gut said it wasn’t.
She opened the stall door and stepped out.
From behind her, she felt movement. She started to turn and gasped when something hard, cold and sharp touched her throat and pressed. Sharp, stinging pain froze her. “This is your last warning. Stop looking for Heather Bradley.” The knife dug a little deeper. Sonya felt a warm trickle of blood begin to slide down her throat. She let out a whimper, lifted up on her tiptoes. She couldn’t speak, was afraid to move.