Deceit by Brandilyn Collins Page A

Footsteps approached. Ron Blasco appeared in the entryway, the beam of my flashlight at his waist level. Mike Trent pulled up beside him.
    “All clear, Mrs. Weeks.” Blasco gestured with his head. “We checked everywhere inside.”
    I tried to swallow the stone in my throat. “Did you see the rain trail, how it led from the back door down to the car?”
    “Yes. And we checked that rear door. It’s locked and bolted.”
    “Like I told you, I did that. I found it open.”
    “Understood. We saw no signs of forced entry.”
    I knew that already.
    “What do you think about the water trail?” I pressed.
    The officers exchanged glances. Mike Trent spoke up. “We can see why you were suspicious. But it’s also very possible that the door was left unlocked and not quite latched. The wind forced it open and blew in rain, right in that line you saw.”
    Yes, that was possible. Probable, even, if it hadn’t been on this night, after a hooded and masked stranger nearly caused me to wreck on the road. But I couldn’t tell them that.
    Could I?
    I surveyed the officers, Hooded Man’s warning in my head. How to tell them I’d been stopped on the road without telling them why? And without the why I would just sound paranoid.
    “Yes,” my mouth said. “I suppose that’s possible.”
    Blasco cleared his throat. “We’re going to check outside around the perimeter. If you’ll just wait here another moment.”
    I moved away from the door. They stepped outside and down my two porch steps into the blistering rain. I stood in the doorway, the squall wrapping me in a cold drool. I couldn’t stand it. When the officers disappeared from sight, I shut the door, shivering.
    A few minutes later they were back, freshly soaked.
    Ron Blasco shook his head. “We saw no footprints, no signs of disturbance around your house. Granted, on a night like this…” He raised a hand, palm up. “Still, we’re satisfied that all’s clear.”
    I nodded, numb. “You’ll make a report, though—that you came out? It’ll include what I told you?”
    “Absolutely.”
    I bit the inside of my lip. What more could I do? “Thank you for coming.”
    “No problem.” Mike Trent offered a quick smile. “Don’t hesitate to call again if you need us.”
    From the doorway I watched them trot to their car and slide inside. The flashing lights cut off. They drove away from the house, onto their next mission. Or maybe back to the station. For their sakes I hoped it had electricity.
    I stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it. Checked the bolt twice. A third time. The black stillness of the house hovered over me, disaster waiting to strike.
    Could my back door have just blown open? Could I have carelessly left it unlocked when I went to Dineen’s for dinner? Try as I might, I couldn’t believe that now, not after seeing that trail of water.
    A shiver zigzagged down my back. The policemen had been nice enough. Diligent. But what were they saying about me now? Joanne Weeks, crazy lady, full of conspiracy theories. Thinks the chief of police is helping Baxter Jackson cover up two murders. Now claims a phantom broke into her home.
    Bearing my flashlight I eased back into the kitchen, body still atingle. Yes, my dark house had been cleared, but try telling my nerves that. At the kitchen table I picked up my cell phone and dialed Dineen. She answered on the first ring.
    “What happened?”
    “Nothing. Except I’m at your house in ten minutes.”
    “Okay.” Her voice read she wanted more but would wait until I got there.
    If only I were with her already. Getting there meant going back out in the storm. Heading down Stillton’s curves. I wondered if I’d ever be able to drive that road with nonchalance again.
    I shivered inside and out. My system desperately needed calming. Cream Soda flavor wouldn’t do the job. “You got any Strawberry Daiquiris in that paltry Jelly Belly stash of yours?”
    “Joanne, one day your teeth are going to fall out