Doug strolled toward her, putting his foot on the first step before he froze at the sound of Buddy’s low growl. He cleared his throat, trying to pretend he wasn’t embarrassed by the dog’s overt dislike. “I wouldn’t be too sure it was your imagination. I thought I saw someone peeking through your front window earlier in the day,” he said. “Do you want me to do a circle of the block to see if there are any strangers hanging around?”
She shivered, giving a shake of her head. It would be crazy to leap to the conclusion that it was the Butcher. The killer was too skilled to be creeping around her house and peeking through her window. He would have to realize it would attract the attention of her neighbors, who were mostly elderly and nosy enough to keep an eye on what was going on around them.
Still, she didn’t want Doug getting himself killed.
“No. I might give the cops a call later,” she assured him.
Doug paused, as if trying to think of some excuse to keep the conversation going. “You could come to my house and give them a call if you feel uneasy being alone.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” She reached down to pat Buddy’s head. “I have plenty of protection.”
Another awkward pause before Doug forced a smile. “Well, if you need anything, just holler out the window and I’ll come running.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I like to be neighborly.”
“Thanks,” Remi muttered, turning to herd her dog into the kitchen and sliding the door behind her. “Yikes.”
She shuddered, turning the lock before she busied herself with feeding Buddy and then heading into the bathroom to take a hot bath. It’d been a long day. And the night promised to be even longer.
Pulling on a pair of fuzzy PJ bottoms and a faded T-shirt, Remi braided her damp hair. She was at the point of deciding whether she intended to eat dinner or crawl into bed with a good book when there was a knock on her door.
Warily, Remi made her way to the living room. Buddy was already at the door barking, and Remi wished she had circled through the kitchen to get her knife. Instead, she held her phone in her hand. She punched in the numbers 9-1-1, her thumb hovering over the Call button.
Inching closer to the door, she flipped on the porch light. Then, leaning forward, she peered through the peephole she’d had installed shortly after she’d moved in.
“Ash,” she breathed, her knees going weak at the sight of his finely sculpted face and the dark curls that had been tousled by the breeze.
A part of her wanted to be annoyed by his uninvited arrival. He’d already disrupted her day. Now he was no doubt intending to disrupt her night. A larger part of her, however, was fiercely glad not to be alone.
Clearly the fear that someone had been creeping around the house had freaked her out more than she wanted to acknowledge.
Chapter Four
Remi slid back the dead bolt and pulled open the door. Her brows lifted as she took in the boxes he held in his hands.
“What’s going on?”
His gaze skimmed over her casual clothing before moving to Buddy, who’d strangely halted his barking. Almost as if he sensed that Ash was a friend. Then he returned his attention to her wary expression. “Can I come in?”
“Come in or move in?” she demanded.
His lips twitched. “I think you’ll be interested in what I brought with me.”
“Fine.” She stepped back, allowing him to walk through the doorway. It was too cold to argue on the front porch. Plus, that sense of relief was still helping to banish the fear that was lodged in the pit of her stomach. She pointed toward the open living room that was filled with furniture chosen for comfort rather than style. “You can use the coffee table for your boxes.”
“Thanks.” With fluid strides, he was moving to lower the boxes on the low table, along with a large backpack. Then he straightened and turned in a slow circle. “This is your grandparents’ house, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they moved to Florida three years ago.”
“We came here for Thanksgiving when we were dating,” he said. “It looks different.”
She tried hard not to remember how she’d snuggled close to Ash on the couch while her grandparents insisted they sit through hours of home movies. Ash hadn’t complained once, and her grandmother had pulled her aside to assure her that Ash Marcel was a “keeper.”
He had been, but that hadn’t prevented her from pushing him away.
She swallowed a sigh. “Not really. I pulled up the carpet to expose the hardwood and painted the walls,” she said.
He released a sharp laugh. “It’s a lot more than I’ve done.”
She didn’t want to think about him in his own house. Perhaps he was sharing it with some beautiful professor who hadn’t retreated into a brittle shell.
Remi’s heart twisted and she reached down to lay her hand on Buddy’s head. He was studying Ash with more curiosity than distrust, but she needed his solid comfort.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
Holding her gaze, Ash slid off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair before he settled on the couch. “To bargain with you.”
“Bargain?”
He patted the cushion next to him. “Have a seat.”
Her heart jerked and skidded before it lurched back to a steady rhythm. She wanted to sit next to him. She wanted to feel the heat of his body seeping through her. And catch the warm scent of his skin.
That was why she deliberately took a chair near the bookshelves that also served as a TV stand.
“Should I be scared?” she asked, keeping her tone deliberately light.
He studied her for a long moment, as if considering his words. “Do you trust me?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
It was true. There was no one in the world she trusted more than Ash.
Something that might have been satisfaction smoldered in his eyes, but as he leaned forward, his expression was grim.
“I think the Butcher is back in Chicago.”
She wasn’t shocked by his words. She’d had a few hours to absorb the fact that a young woman had turned up in the morgue with her throat slit and the Butcher’s mark on her breast.
“So do I.”
He continued to hold her gaze. “And I think he’s obsessed with you.”
She frowned. She was willing to accept that the Butcher was back, but she wasn’t convinced that he was obsessed with her personally. Most serial killers chose their prey for a specific purpose. The Butcher had a thing for dark-haired women with green eyes.
“Because he killed a woman who happened to look like me?”
“Because she looked exactly like you.”
She made a sound of impatience. “So what are you saying? Do you think he saw her and mistook her for me?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not entirely sure. I just know I’m worried.”
A tiny spark of warmth flared to life in the center of her heart. It’d been a long time since she’d felt as if someone cared about her. Really and truly cared.
Her mother loved her, of course, but Liza Harding-Walsh found it difficult to display her emotions.
“I don’t know why he’d be obsessed with me,” she muttered.