Arizona Heat

One thing at a time, I thought. As if there was some universal crisis monitor out there someplace with a clipboard, making sure I didn’t get overloaded.

Yeah. Right.

On an impulse, I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. Locked up and headed for the outside stairway leading to my second-floor apartment. Okay, I definitely wasn’t ready to move back in, but I was up for a little immersion therapy. I was a grown woman, twenty-eight years old and self-supporting, and I’d survived some pretty hairy situations in my time.

I could stand walking through my empty apartment.

Sooner or later, I’d have to come to terms with the things that had happened there—some of them bad, some of them very, very good.

All the very, very good stuff involved Tucker, unfortunately. And it wasn’t just the sex, either. We’d shared a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches in that apartment, swapped a few confidences, laughed and argued, too.

I climbed the stairs, and my hand shook only a little as I jammed the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked on its hinges as I pushed it open, and I forced myself to step over the threshold.

Dark memories rushed me, left me breathless.

I switched on the light in the short hallway, even though it was three o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was blazing through every window.

My heart began to hammer as I moved into the living room. The atmosphere felt thick, smothering.

I half expected my dead ex-husband to appear, but he didn’t.

Even he would have been some consolation that day.

I stayed close to the walls as I did reconnaissance, as cautious as if I were a member of some crack SWAT team staking out dangerous territory.

I sidestepped around the edges of the living room, the kitchen and finally the place I was most afraid to go—the bedroom. There was a peculiar humming thud in my ears, and my stomach kept bouncing up into the back of my throat.

I got down on my hands and knees, snagging my panty hose in the process, and peered under the bed. No monsters lurking there.

A tap on my shoulder nearly launched me through the ceiling.

I smacked my head on the bed frame and whirled on my knees, stoked on adrenaline, prepared to fight for my life.

It was only Gillian.

Her blue eyes glistened with tears. I wondered if she’d gone to the cemetery, seen her coffin lowered into the ground.

But no, there hadn’t been time for that. And I knew there was no graveside service planned. Her mother and a few friends would be there, no one else.

I straightened and pulled her into my arms. I didn’t even try not to cry.

She clung to me, shivering. She felt so small, so fragile. Ethereal, but solid, too.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” I whispered when I’d recovered enough to speak. “Tell me who—who did this to you.”

She shook her head. Was she refusing to tell me, or was it that she didn’t know who her murderer was? Yes, she’d denied her stepfather’s guilt with a shake of her head, but that didn’t mean she’d recognized her killer. He or she might have been a stranger. Or perhaps she hadn’t actually seen the person at all; I wasn’t even sure how or where she’d been killed. The police weren’t releasing that information and there was no visible indication of trauma in her appearance, either.

Still, I had a strong intuitive sense that she was keeping a secret.

I got up off my knees, sat on the edge of the bed I was still too afraid to sleep in. Gillian perched beside me, looking up into my face with enormous, imploring eyes.

“Honey,” I said carefully, “did you see the person who hurt you?”

Again, she shook her head, another clear no. There had been a slight hesitation, though.

I let out a breath. “But you’re sure it wasn’t your stepfather?”

She nodded vigorously.

I was about to ask how she could be so certain when the phone on my bedside table rang, a shrill jangling that made my nerves jump.

Gillian instantly evaporated.

I picked up the receiver more out of reflex than any desire to talk to anyone. “Hello?”

“It’s Tucker.”

I closed my eyes. Opened them again right away, in case some psycho was about to spring out of the woodwork and pounce. “What?” I asked, none too graciously.

He let out a sigh. “Look, I don’t blame you for being upset,” he said after an interval of brief, throbbing silence. “But we still need to talk.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I guessed.”

“Liar.”

“All right, I drove by after I dropped Allison off at home, and I saw your car in the parking lot at Bert’s.”

“Where are you?”

“Standing at the bottom of the stairway, trying to work up the nerve to come up and knock on your door.”

“Don’t,” I said.

“Moje, we need to talk—about us, about lots of stuff. But today it’s all about Gillian. I’m not planning to jump your bones, I promise.”

“Okay,” I heard myself say, taking him at his word. In fact, Tucker was about as easy to resist as a tsunami. “Come up, then. The door’s open.”

Tucker rang off, and I heard him double-timing it up the outside stairs.

I replaced the cordless phone on its base, stood, straightened the black dress I’d borrowed from Greer—it was the same one I’d worn to Lillian’s funeral, not that long ago—and smoothed my wild red hair, which was trying to escape from the clip holding it captive at the back of my head.

“You should have locked the door,” Tucker said, standing just inside my door in the tiny entry hall. He’d shed his suit coat, but he was still wearing the dark slacks, a crisp white shirt and a tie, the knot loosened. He looked like some next-dimension version of himself, just slightly off.

“As far as I know,” I replied circumspectly, keeping my distance, “nobody is trying to kill me.”

“Hey,” he said with a bleak attempt at a grin, “given your history, that could change at any moment.”