Paranoid(4)

And now Lila wanted her to be a part of the reunion meeting. Which was only part of her irritation. That stupid Mercedes Jennings . . . no, her name had changed . . . She was married to Tom Pope now. Well, anyway, that stupid Mercedes Pope was a damned reporter and wanted to interview her about Luke Hollander’s death.

After twenty years. Some kind of retro piece for the local paper.

No way.

Make that no friggin’ way.

High school and all the drama, tears, and tragedy were long over, thank God, and now she was married to Leonard and had three beautiful, wonderful fur babies and . . . She glanced out the window at the dark night. God, how had her life turned into such a mess?

Honey had padded across the room and was whining at the bedside.

“Oh, you,” Violet said, her mood lifting at the sight of her happy dog. “Can’t sleep? Well, get on up here.” She patted the duvet and Honey didn’t hesitate, just hopped up quickly as if expecting Violet to change her mind. Not likely. Leonard was the one who drew the line at pets in the bed. “There you go.” She petted the dog’s coppery coat.

As Honey settled against her on the thick pillows, her small body curled against Violet, she clicked through the channels to catch a late show. Much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t sleep well when Leonard was out of town. It was stupid really, that she felt safer with him snoring beside her. Yeah, he was thirty pounds overweight and his once-lush hair had thinned to the point that he clipped what remained close to his skull. He disapproved of her affinity for wine—like, really disapproved—but Len put up with her quirks. When she told him she wasn’t interested in having children, he’d gone along with it.

Hence the dogs. Her babies. Three purebred Cavalier King Charles spaniels. Honey on the bed with her and the other two curled up in matching beds near the armoire in the corner. She tried to set her glass on the bedside table and it slipped, sloshing wine onto the bed and into the partially open drawer in her nightstand.

“No!” She freaked for a second, then decided she’d deal with the mess in the morning. It was only a couple of spots on the duvet; she’d flip it over. She’d clean up the splash in the drawer when she got up tomorrow before her husband returned. Leonard would never suspect.

She was a bit buzzy, well, make that more than a bit, but what did it matter since Leonard was out of town until tomorrow? And her bones seemed to be melting in such a lovely fashion. Closing her eyes, she was barely aware that the late show host’s monologue was over and he was interviewing his first guest, an actress with a new movie out and . . .

Honey shifted, a low growl coming from her throat.

“Shhh,” Violet rasped thickly. She was drifting off.

A sharp bark.

Violet opened an eye and glanced to the beds where her other two dogs had been sleeping. Without her glasses she had to squint. The male, black and tan coat gleaming, was staring at the door. “Che, enough!” Geez, what was wrong with him? But he wasn’t alone. From her bed, the third dog, Trix, a usually shy tricolor, was snarling, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the bedroom.

For a second, Violet felt a frisson of worry slide through her insides. What if Leonard had come back early? Crap! How could she hide her glass and the bottle and the . . . ?

Wait a sec! If Leonard was returning, the dogs wouldn’t be growling.. . . No, more likely they would be yipping excitedly, ready to leap up and greet him. And she hadn’t heard the rumble of the garage door as it rolled open.

She glanced at the clock. The glowing letters were a little blurry, but she could still make out the time.

12:47.

No, her husband wouldn’t show up this late without calling. She fumbled on the bed table for her phone and glanced at the messages. Nothing from Leonard.

Clunk.

Her heart froze.

Had she heard something?

A noise from the hallway?

But all of the dogs were in here with her.

She swallowed and muted the television. On the screen the host and his guest were laughing uproariously though the TV was silent.

Violet strained to listen over the beating of her heart.

She heard nothing.

Not a sound.

But she felt as if something were wrong. Very, very wrong.

Don’t let your nerves get the better of you.

Not a sound.

Beside her, Honey was stiff, her big eyes focused on the door.

Jesus, the damned dogs were freaking her out.

Che growled.

Trix snarled again.

This was no good. No damned good.

But probably nothing.

Had to be nothing.

Licking her lips, she tamped down her fear. The house was locked tight. She was sure of it. She’d checked the doors and windows herself. Hadn’t she? No one could get in . . . well, unless they slipped through the doggy door in the kitchen or . . . oh, crap! The outside door to the garage. It was usually bolted shut but Leonard sometimes forgot to secure it when he took out the garbage and, of course, the inside door between the house and garage was always kept unlocked.

Her pulse inched up a notch, but she fought the anxiety whispering through her.

No reason to panic.

Yet.

Licking her lips again, she slowly opened the drawer to her nightstand, found her glasses, and slipped them on, despite the fact that they were blurry from the wine. Then, she silently retrieved her pistol. For a second, she flashed back to the first time she’d held a gun. That night. Two decades earlier. But then she’d held a pellet pistol in her palm. This heavier gun was the real thing, a Smith & Wesson 9mm Shield, a semiautomatic that could do real damage. She flipped off the safety, her fingers curling over the somewhat sticky grip.