One
After ten days of nonstop work at Addison-Tunnell Ad Agency, twenty-nine-year-old executive Rachel Dean was finally on her way home. The presentation was finished and ready to present tomorrow.
It was just after 7 p.m., and thanks to traffic on the Dallas Beltway, it took almost forty-five minutes to reach the historic district where she lived. The apartment she rented was in an old mansion called the Detter House. It had been renovated into apartments by the present owner about twenty years ago, and rare openings in the residence were a hot leasing commodity.
The two-story wings on either side of the midsection were now all apartments. The midsection had been turned into a communal lobby on the first floor with big-screen televisions, and the second floor was the central elevator system that led to both north and south wings.
There was a full basement beneath the central part, and the grounds surrounding it provided covered parking for the residents, a pool and an area for outdoor entertaining.
Rachel loved living here, and breathed a sigh of relief when the grand edifice appeared in her view. She took the turn up the drive and then drove around back to her covered parking space. Living alone for as long as she had, Rachel had a tendency to talk to herself, which was evident when she grabbed her purse and briefcase to exit the car.
“Oh, my Lord...my feet are killing me. I have never been so glad to get home.”
She waved to some of the residents who were outside grilling by the heated pool as she passed.
“Come join us!” one man called.
“Another time,” Rachel said. “I’m bushed!”
He gave her a thumbs-up, then turned back to the grill.
The grilling meat smelled good, but all she wanted was a shower, a bowl of soup and to kick back and put up her feet.
She took the elevator to the second floor, then down the hall to her apartment in the north wing. It was habit to lock the door behind her as she went in, and habit that she left her purse on the hall table and her briefcase on the floor beside it, before heading to the bedroom to change.
The floors were shining, and the woodwork dusted. Today had been the day the cleaning service came, and the scent of lemon oil and lilac followed her from room to room. Lilac was her latest choice of air freshener, and a subtle hint that they were also her favorite flower.
She stripped off her clothes, changing into old blue jeans and a long-sleeved Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. She traded her high heels for socks and tennis shoes, then picked up the clothes she’d just removed, along with what was in her hamper, and took them to the laundry and started the load to wash.
The washer was filling with water as she went to the pantry to get a can of chicken noodle soup. She thought about making herself a sandwich, as she poured the soup into a bowl to heat, but opted for cheese and crackers to go with it instead.
She was waiting for the microwave to stop when she began hearing faint strains of music. It sounded like the cookout at the pool was turning into a party. She knew she’d be welcome if she joined them, but the thought of getting back into party clothes was too much, and despite the heated pool, the evenings were getting too cool now for her to enjoy a swim.
The microwave dinged as she was taking her plate of cheese and crackers to the table. She turned on the iPad she’d left there this morning, and then made herself something to drink. As she stepped back to the microwave to get her soup, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection.
Her features were a bit muddled, but the basic outline of her short dark curls and pug nose was obvious. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she liked who she was, and that was enough. When she lifted the hot soup from the microwave, the scent made her stomach growl as she carried it to the table.
She reached for the iPad, pulled up the book she’d been reading, then tested the heat of the soup before she took her first bite. The warmth of the soup, and the homey taste of the noodles, were reminders of her childhood. She ate with relish, wishing her older sister, Millie, who still lived in their hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma, were with her, and then got lost in the story as she ate.
She was about halfway through her meal when she heard the sound of laughter coming from the back of her apartment. It sounded like it was in her bedroom, which made no sense, because she lived alone.
Frowning, she put down her spoon and got up to investigate. There was no hesitation or fear as she walked into her bedroom. But she was surprised that her television was on.
“What in the world?” she muttered, and began looking around for the remote to turn it off.
When she finally spied it on the shelf below the television, instead of the bedside table where she always kept it, she assumed the cleaning crew had moved it, but it still didn’t explain why it had suddenly turned on.
Focused solely on getting to the remote, she didn’t hear the soft sound of a footfall behind her. Then the stabbing pain at the nape of her neck was shocking, and caught her unawares. She screamed, thinking something had just stung her, and was reaching for the back of her neck when the room began to spin, and then everything went black.
* * *
It was five minutes to 4 a.m. when Charlie Dodge’s cell phone signaled a text. He rolled over in bed, saw the time and groaned. Who would be texting him at this time of the morning?
Then he saw it was from Wyrick.
“What the hell?” he muttered, then threw back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed as he pulled up the message.
Stay off the beltway this morning. There’s going to be a massive pileup.
“What the hell, again?” he muttered.
Frustrated and sleepy, he forgot he was only wearing gym shorts as he got up and strode across the hall to her bedroom, then pounded on the door.
There was a long moment of silence, and then he pounded again, and got a very cranky response.
“Are you bleeding?”
He rolled his eyes. “No.”
The tone of her voice had not softened. “Then what the hell? It’s 4 a.m.”
“Why, yes, it is. So why are you sending me random texts at this hour?” he shouted.
There was another, even longer moment of silence, and then the door swung inward, and Wyrick was standing in the shadows wearing pink flannel pajamas with little white lambs on them—a complete dichotomy to the red-and-black dragon tattoo beneath.
He’d seen her in those pajamas before, and was always surprised by how vulnerable she looked without the war paint she wore in public.
As for Wyrick, she’d seen Charlie’s bare chest, hard abs and long bare legs before, and was still struggling to pull out of the nightmare she’d been having when he knocked.
“I didn’t send you a text!” she snapped.