High Stakes Trial by Mindy Klasky

Author:Mindy Klasky [Klasky, Mindy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Book View Cafe

19

At the end of my shift, I headed home. That seemed the least complicated of all my options—seeking out the quiet privacy of my basement apartment instead of figuring out a path to peace with Chris or forging yet another elaborate, untraceable route to James’s sanctum.

At least I didn’t have to deal with Metro. I had a private car waiting for me downstairs. James’s Prius started without a hint of hesitation, and it glided silently out of the garage.

Alas, my downscale home didn’t come equipped with a private garage. My neighborhood wasn’t made for car owners either. It took me fifteen minutes to find a parking space, and then I was a full three-block walk from my front door. Maybe I would have been better off taking the subway after all.

I stooped to collect a handful of advertising flyers from the bottom of the stairwell. They went straight into the recycling bin, but I owed it to myself to go through the stack of actual mail that had piled up in my mailbox. There might be something I wanted, tucked among the endless catalogs and credit card offers.

Fat chance. There wasn’t a handwritten address or actual stamp in sight. I shoved the door closed with my hip, automatically turning the dead bolt and flipping on the light switch.

I was half-way to the kitchen table when I heard the quicksilver voice: “Why bother with a security chain, if you aren’t going to use it?”

Yelping in surprise, I dropped the mail, letting it scatter across the linoleum floor. Automatically, I surveyed the kitchen counter for a weapon—a knife, a pair of scissors, even a ball-point pen.

Of course my sphinx nature would never have left anything—weapon or otherwise—sitting out on the counter. My best hope was to grab a frying pan from the pot rack above the stove. If only I’d invested in some serious cast-iron, instead of a light-weight skillet barely capable of frying a couple of eggs…

Even as my fingers closed around the plasticized handle of my thoroughly inadequate bludgeon, my brain overruled my adrenaline, and I identified my intruder’s voice. He was sitting on my couch, clear across the shadowed living room. He wasn’t close enough to slash open the scabs atop my jugular.

“James,” I said, measuring out his name with perfect neutrality as I turned to face him.

“Sarah,” he answered, matching my tone precisely.

Once I released my frying pan, my fingers itched to pick up the scattered mail, but I wasn’t going down on my knees in front of my unexpected vampire visitor. Instead, I channeled my anxiety into a demand: “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You stopped by my home yesterday,” he said reasonably. “I thought I’d return the favor.”

I couldn’t imagine a more bogus explanation. But I had given him a key, over a year ago. Before that, I’d invited him to cross my threshold. Irony of ironies, I’d extended the welcome because we’d both feared Richardson might send minions to attack me.

The night before, when James had caught me entering his sanctum, I’d felt like an invader.

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