An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

“Welcome home,” said my former captor. His barfly cologne permeated the room, though I couldn’t see him because my vision was still adjusting to the shadows. Finally, I spotted Sam’s torso reclining the length of my red vinyl banquette, his gun silhouetted by the glow of the microwave clock behind him. “Go ahead, turn on the light.”

“An officer is right behind me.” I flipped the switch, illuminating my butter-yellow kitchen.

“If you say so.” Sam rubbed his eyes and blinked, like he’d been sleeping. “Only one set of footsteps on the stairs, though.”

“He’s waiting for me in the foyer,” I added. Max trotted over to the thug and panted happily at his side, while my feet clung to the checkerboard linoleum through the flip-flops, my legs like steel posts. Run, damn it.

“Ain’t worried about cops, lady. Now that other guy, you don’t want to meet him again.”

“You mean your buddy in the park.”

“‘Buddy.’ That’s funny. I remember him shooting me.” His head fell back and he scoffed at the tin-paneled ceiling before pushing himself higher on the banquette. A gunshot would explain his pain, and the vest explained the lack of blood, but he could still be bleeding internally from broken ribs or ruptured organs. And he could still fall over dead on my kitchen table. If only I were that lucky “If he’s out there, he’s searching. For both of us. We’re safer holing up here.”

Safe? The word flew like a dagger at my ears. For years I’d used that argument, declining both company and dinner invitations alike, hiding in this run-down ancestral home like a hermit. This was my last sanctuary in a world of violence. A sanctuary now breached.

I reached for the doorknob. He’d let me go before...

“Going somewhere?” He scraped the gun across the Formica of my ’50s dinner table, his forefinger flat along the barrel. “Just take a seat and relax.”

Sam whistled. Max hopped onto the banquette by his side. Sam snapped his fingers and Max sat. “Smart, like his mamma,” he said, as he rubbed Max’s long velvet ears while his other hand remained glued to the gun. “Loyal, too. Told him ‘go home,’ and home’s right where he led me. Nice neighbor, that old lady. Pretty dumb letting strangers up like that. Gets folks killed in my business.”

“They know you have my address,” I said. “They’re combing the neighborhood as we speak.”

“Who, the cops? Wouldn’t be so confident in those bozos. Trust me, there’s a shelf date on their attention span.” He snorted and then wiped his bloody mouth on his sleeve. His leg reached and he kicked a chair from under the table. “Sit down, will ya. You’re giving me an ulcer.” When I held to my white square, he sighed. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Then maybe I should run.”

“Fine. Go find my buddy.” He spun the gun on the table, like we were about to play a game of Russian roulette.

“The neighbors will hear you if you shoot me.”

“Christ, I’m not gonna fucking shoot you.” Sam sat up a bit fast and froze, his face squinting with pain.

My ears registered his words, while my body felt the gun tapping a hole in my chest all over again. Resentment came in waves: first, because he’d used me as a hostage; second, because I’d felt sorry for him; third, because I’d spent my morning in a scum-infested police station being interrogated for helping him evade capture; and fourth, because he was stinking up my kitchen with my dog under his arm.