Page 50 of From the Darkness

Water and shampoo were running down her face, and she knew she’d be making a painful mistake if she opened her lids. As quickly as possible, she rinsed the suds out of her hair and grabbed the plastic bottle of shampoo. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was the best she could do. Turning her head slowly, she looked toward the shower curtain again. Once more, to her vast relief, she found no one standing beyond the flimsy barrier.

Breathing out a little sigh, she thought about getting out of the shower. But she always washed her hair twice—then finished off with cream rinse.

Tonight, she skipped the second wash, but she couldn’t shake the creepy feeling of being observed, and she worked with lightning speed, barely kissing her hair with the cream rinse before sticking her head under the spray again.

God, was there a hidden camera in the bathroom? She hadn’t thought to look for one in here. Maybe that had been a big mistake.

In theWashington Post,she’d read about a dirty old man who rented apartments to young women and videotaped their most intimate moments—in the bedroom and bathroom. Could Graves, the handyman, be up to something like that?

Her enthusiasm for the shower had evaporated. With a grimace, she turned off the water, then pulled the curtain partially aside and stared at the light fixture, the window frame, the mirror on the medicine cabinet. They all looked utterly ordinary. But they would, wouldn’t they?

Ready to step out of the tub, she switched her gaze downward, making sure she didn’t slip as she climbed over the high side. As she focused on the bathmat, she froze, and a wave of cold swept over her—peppering her skin with goose bumps.

In the white pile of the small rug, she saw the impression of two footprints. Not her small ones. Two much larger prints of tennis shoes. A man’s shoes, unless one of the women here wore size fifteen shoes—and she didn’t remember Nola or Mrs. Martindale clumping around in rowboats.

She stopped in mid-stride, her hand clamping on the edge of the tub as she peered downward—telling herself she must be mistaken—that she had imagined the imprints.

But they remained firmly in her line of vision. Mocking her.

She’d been right the first time. She wasn’t being watched on a video camera. Someone had been here! They’d been out in the bedroom, then come into the bathroom, in the few minutes when she’d had her eyes closed.

Quickly, her arm shot out, and she grabbed the towel from the rack, wrapping it around herself like a security blanket—hiding her nakedness. For all the good that did her now. Her visitor had already seen her stark naked.

She didn’t want to leave the bathroom. But if someone had been standing right beside the shower, she wasn’t safe anyway. Gingerly, she stepped around the bathmat, the cold floor hitting the bottoms of her feet and seeping into her bones.

After drying off in record time, she looked at the nightgown she’d laid out. It would make her feel too exposed. Instead of pulling it on, she got fresh underwear out of the suitcase she’d set on the stand in the corner and then pulled on the shirt and pants she’d been wearing.

As she dressed, she tried to talk herself out of her previous conclusion. Maybe the footprints were not what she thought. Maybe something about the steamy atmosphere in the room had brought out previous impressions on the rug.

It was a reasonable theory, she told herself. And she added more details. While she’d been in the shower, she hadn’t felt the wave of cold air she should have felt if the door had been opened.

Stepping back into the bedroom, she crossed to the door and checked the lock. It was secure. So was the closet door. But so what? After the episode in the shower, the idea of sleeping in this room gave her the creeps. She knew that she wasn’t going to get a moment’s sleep if she stayed here.

Returning to the bathroom, she did a quick job of blow drying her hair before looking around the bedroom, wishing that her gun hadn’t disappeared. Finally, she unplugged the cut glass lamp on the bedside table and removed the silk shade. Clutching the cylindrical base in her hand, she tiptoed to the door and listened. When she heard nothing, she cautiously turned the lock and looked out into the hall.

Torn between feeling foolish and needing to feel safe, she left the bedroom, closed the door, and stood in the hall, trying to decide where to go.

An image came to her. An image of Troy’s room. Nola had given her a direct order to stay away from there, which meant getting caught disobeying instructions would put her in jeopardy.

Yet once the idea took hold, she simply couldn’t dislodge it from her mind. It was almost as if Troy was talking to her inside her head—compelling her to come to him. Telling her she’d be safe in his bed.

Returning briefly to the room she’d just left, she grabbed the lock-picking kit before tiptoeing quietly along the hallway to the backstairs. On the landing at the top, she waited for several minutes, making sure that no one else was up here walking around.

After she was sure the coast was clear, she hurried down the hall to Troy’s room. When she tried the knob, she found the door was unlocked.

And the only explanation that made sense was that Troy had opened the door for her. Because he wanted her to come here. Because he wanted to keep her safe.

She kept that idea centered in her mind as she stepped inside and locked the door behind her, before dragging over a straight chair. Tipping it up, she wedged the top rung under the knob. If someone wanted to come in, she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

She could be locking Troy out, of course. But somehow, she didn’t think that was going to be the case.

***

He stood in the shadows of the bedroom, one hand slipped into his pocket, the casual pose belying the electric tension coursing through him.

He’d chosen a spot with an excellent view of the sitting room, and his heart lurched when he saw the door to the hall open.

She had come! Because he’d asked her here. He hoped.

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