The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(8)

Catalina gasped and instinctively jerked her finger off the bell. Now the darkness that gripped the interior of the house took on an ominous aspect that could not be ignored or explained away.

Common sense dictated that the smart move now was to call the police—assuming they would bother to respond. The last crime scene case she had worked for Roger Gossard had given her a reputation as a flake as far as law enforcement was concerned.

She hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Her intuition warned her that if Marsha was still alive it might be a bad idea to leave the scene. The intruder, assuming there was one, might feel compelled to carry out even more violent action in an attempt to silence his victim before the police arrived.

Catalina opened her purse and took out the dinner fork that she kept inside.

The door opened a scant few inches. Marsha appeared.

“Catalina.” Marsha’s voice was hoarse with panic.

The hall light was off but there was enough illumination emanating from the outside fixture to reveal her stark features. She stared at Catalina, desperate and terrified. It was clear now that she was not alone in the house. Angus Hopper was inside. That was the only thing that could explain the fear in Marsha’s eyes.

A vision of Marsha lying dead on the floor, blood streaming from her slit throat, whispered across Catalina’s senses. She suppressed the dreamlike image with an effort. Marsha wasn’t dead—not yet, at any rate.

“Marsha,” Catalina said, “what’s wrong?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Catalina said. She clutched the fork very tightly. “I was worried about you.”

“Go away,” Marsha pleaded. “I don’t want to see anyone tonight.”

But her eyes sent a different message. Her gaze shifted briefly to her right. Catalina knew then that Hopper was standing just out of sight on the other side of the door. She had to assume that he was armed.

“All right,” she said. “If you’re sure you want to be alone?”

“Yes.”

Catalina threw herself against the partially open door, slamming it inward with all her weight. Marsha stumbled back. There was a heavy thud when the door struck the man who had been concealed behind it.

Caught off guard, he was shoved hard against the wall. There was a muffled grunt. An object clattered on the tile floor.

Marsha yelped and rushed out the door.

“Run,” Catalina shouted. “The car.”

Marsha did not hesitate. She leaped down the steps. Catalina whirled around in an attempt to follow, but a big hand clamped over her arm and hauled her back. She did not try to free herself. She went with the momentum and rammed the fork upward in the general direction of her captor’s eyes.

Startled, Hopper slackened his hold on her arm. Instinctively, he lurched back out of reach of the fork, but he did not release her.

“Bitch,” he shouted.

Catalina stabbed again and again, wildly this time, going for whatever she could reach.

She knew she had connected with flesh when the fork met resistance. She kept jabbing. Hopper yowled in pain and rage, and suddenly she was free. She ran through the doorway. Marsha had the passenger-side door of the car open.

“Get in, get in,” Catalina shouted.

Marsha bolted into the car and slammed the door shut. Catalina got behind the wheel, dropped the fork, closed the door and hit the lock button.

Hopper had taken a few seconds to pick up his knife, but he was moving fast. He reached the passenger side of the car an instant after the locks took effect. Blood flowed from the fork wounds on the side of his face. He wrenched the door handle. When he discovered that it wouldn’t open, he pounded on the window with the hilt of his knife. Catalina heard glass crack.

She stepped hard on the accelerator. The little car leaped forward. In the grip of an unthinking rage, Hopper tried to cling to the vehicle. He managed to hang on for a couple of yards before he was thrown aside.

Catalina aimed the car down the driveway, heading toward the winding street. She gripped the wheel in both hands. She was shivering with the unnerving energy of raw adrenaline. She managed to make the call to 911 and promised to wait in a safe location until the police arrived.

Marsha stared straight ahead throughout the short, terse conversation with the emergency operator. When Catalina ended the call, Marsha finally emerged from her trancelike state.

“You were right about Hopper,” she said. “I should have taken your advice. But I was so fucking angry. I called him and told him I knew everything about him and that I was going to file charges.”

“What did he say?” Catalina asked.

“Nothing. He just hung up on me. The next thing I knew he was at my door with a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne. I couldn’t believe it. As if I was going to fall for his lies again. He didn’t take out the knife until he was inside.”

“Are you all right?”

“No, but I will be, thanks to you.” Marsha glanced down at the console between the two seats. “A fork? Really?”

“People think it’s odd if you carry a knife or a gun in your handbag.”

“But they don’t take much notice of a fork.”

“No,” Catalina said. “They don’t.”

“Have you ever had to use it before tonight?”