John Doe on Her Doorstep. Debra Webb
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There wasn’t a full load yet so she opted not to start the cycle. Time for that bath now. Hopefully the hot water would melt away the rest of her tension. The wine she’d had with her meal was already making her feel warm inside.
She poured herself another glass and sipped it thoughtfully as she walked from the kitchen to the entry hall. The light from the kitchen lit her way well enough that she didn’t bother with the hall light. She shifted her glass to her left hand and started unbuttoning her blouse with her right.
If she was lucky, there might be one more envelope of raspberry-scented bath salts. God, that would be heavenly, she thought as she rounded the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.
She stilled when she would have taken the first step up. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She swallowed, then turned around slowly. Very slowly.
Someone stood in the shadows shrouding the front door.
Tall. A man. Her heart stalled in midbeat.
God, why hadn’t she locked the front door? Because no one around here locked doors.
He stepped out of the darkness. The dim glow that reached this end of the hall highlighted the chiseled features of his face. His clothing was torn and disheveled. Blood. Dried blood stained the right shoulder of his khaki shirt.
Dani’s eyes widened in fear. The urge to scream climbed into her throat.
She had to run. As if he’d read her mind, a strong hand snaked out and manacled her wrist.
She opened her mouth to cry out.
He swayed. She gasped, and then he crumpled to the floor.
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