And the gate would have latched.
Her lungs constricted. Fear slid through her blood at the thought that someone had been inside, was possibly still in her home. Heart in her throat, she cautiously reached into the interior, her fingers searching the wall until she found the light switch and flipped it on. The living room was suddenly ablaze with light. Jennings shot through the door before Nikki could catch him.
No one was hiding in the corners or tucked behind the curtains.
The apartment looked undisturbed.
Still nervous, Nikki walked slowly from one room to the next. Everything, down to the cat’s partially consumed food, was just as she’d left it. Cold coffee sat in the pot, her slippers were against the bureau where she’d kicked them, some of her makeup bottles still rested on the counter.
“False alarm,” she told the cat and breathed a sigh of relief as she locked the door and double-checked the windows, all of which were shut. “So why didn’t the front door latch?” she wondered aloud as she stripped out of her clothes and turned on the radio.
A syndicated talk show, Midnight Confessions, was being aired. The host was Dr. Sam, a New Orleans radio psychologist who was currently dispensing advice to any nutc
ase who had a phone. Nikki remembered the notoriety of the show a few years back when a serial killer stalked the streets of New Orleans and called Dr. Sam while she was on the air. Tonight she was talking to a woman who was thinking about starting a physical affair with a man with whom she’d had cybersex, whatever the hell that was, over the Internet. “Just what we need,” Nikki muttered, crawling into bed and petting the cat. “Other people’s perversions.” Jennings began to purr so loudly Nikki barely heard the next radio caller whining that her current husband didn’t get along with her fifteen-year-old daughter. “Big surprise. I didn’t get along with my dad, either.” She pulled the duvet to her neck and closed her mind to her own rebellious teenage years and her incredibly dysfunctional family. With a pang of guilt she realized she hadn’t spoken to her mother in almost a week. “Tomorrow,” she promised, making a mental note as she turned off the light and settled deeper under the covers. The room was chilly, the winter night seeming to seep through the window, and shadows played against the walls. Nikki closed her eyes and rolled over, her hand slipping under the pillow, her fingers touching something foreign and stiff—paper, no, an envelope.
What in the world?
She shot out of the bed, snapped on the light and tossed the pillow to one side. Jennings streaked under the bed.
There, on the blue sheets, was an envelope.
Reminding her of the note she’d found on her windshield.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, terror driving straight to her heart.
She jumped away from the bed, every muscle tense. Quickly she scanned the bedroom again, rechecking under the bed and in the closet, knowing that someone, some stranger, had been in her house. Her ears strained: She heard nothing but the sound of the wind outside and the old house groaning. Calm down, Nikki. There is no one, no one inside your apartment. You checked. The door is locked. The bolt is thrown. The windows are latched.
And yet she was shaking in the middle of the floor.
Someone had been in earlier.
And had left a message.
Trembling, she eased toward the bed, as if she expected someone to leap out from under it when she already knew no one was there. So scared she couldn’t think straight, she picked up the envelope and slowly opened it. The message leaped out at her:
IT’S DONE.
She repeated the phrase aloud. “It’s done. What? What’s done?” What the hell was this all about? How had someone gotten into her apartment? She walked to the front door, opened it slowly and looked for signs that the lock had been forced. Nothing. But she had no doubt someone had gotten in through that door and inadvertently let the cat out. Some unknown person had been in here. In her bedroom, touching her bed, lifting her pillows. Her heart was thundering. Fear and anger stormed through her. Who would do this? Who had a key? Why would someone go to so much trouble to leave her a note—no, that wasn’t it; whoever did it intended to terrorize her as well.
Trying to keep panic at bay, she tried to think logically. Someone was trying to tell her something…something important. TONIGHT and IT’S DONE. Someone had accomplished his mission, whatever that was. Deep inside, she knew it was something bad, something dark and evil. She remembered the figure in the street…early in the morning…watching her…with Reed.
Dear God, could it have something to do with Pierce Reed? That seemed farfetched and yet the notes had started after this whole Grave Robber thing began. No way. You’re leaping to conclusions that don’t make sense. Think rationally, not from fear. Who would do this to you? An enemy? Who has a key besides you and the landlord? A friend you loaned one to? She ticked off the list of people she’d given a key to, but, unless someone had made a copy, she’d always gotten her keys back. Simone had borrowed her car on occasion, and she’d asked her sister Lily to watch her apartment and Jennings when she was out of town; there was her old boyfriend, Sean Hawkes, and her father…Trina had borrowed her car and her house key had been on the ring…Dear God, there had been too many to count.
Right now, Nikki was too tired to think and didn’t believe that anyone she knew or trusted would be involved, unless they were careless and someone had made a copy. Slowly, she made her way back to bed and threw off the covers. If he’d left the note, he could have left something else as well. Something far worse. She spent the next hour going over every inch of her apartment, but found nothing else disturbed, no other indications that anyone had been inside. Only then did she prop a desk in front of the door and try to resume her life.
You should call the police.
And do what? Tell them she’d gotten two notes that meant nothing?
They do not mean nothing and you know it.
Maybe in the morning. She’d look like a fool. Tough reporter Nikki Gillette, frightened by a couple of notes.
She couldn’t sleep in the bed as it was…The thought that some pervert had been in it was too much to bear. She carried her duvet into the living room area and curled onto the couch, wondering if she would ever feel safe in the bed or this apartment again. She’d always considered this tower room as her personal haven. Now, it had been violated. “Bastard,” she muttered, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Burrowing deep under the covers, she closed her eyes. Her ears strained to hear the tiniest noise that seemed out of sync in her home, but she heard only the sighing of the wind and a rumble of the furnace.
Who the hell was leaving the notes?
And why?