Protector - Laurel Dewey [89]
Jane started toward the car, her legs moving like jelly. She heard the muted sound of fists pounding on glass. Suddenly, she heard the isolated voice of a screaming child. The SUV continued inching toward her as the pounding fists and screaming grew louder. With one quick turn, the SUV changed course, turning right.
That’s when she saw it. There, alone in the backseat of the SUV was Emily. She slammed her fists against the glass and screamed out Jane’s name.
“Jane!” Emily shrieked. “Help me!”
Jane’s connected with Emily’s eyes just as a tremendous explosion rocketed through the fog and silence, blasting the SUV into a thousand tiny pieces.
Jane stood amidst the raining fire and screamed, “No! Emily!”
Slam!
Jane woke up on the kitchen floor with a core-rattling shock. “Emily!” Jane yelled into the darkness. Something was wrong—dead wrong. Her gut shouted a sick, twisted, dark warning. The more Jane leaned into the feeling, the more sinister it became.
Jane secured her pistol into its holster and rose quickly to her feet. Groping through the dim light, she snagged her leather satchel, pulled out her keys, bolted out the front door and raced toward her parked Mustang.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Emily looked up toward her closed bedroom door.
“Emily?” Martha said, standing outside the door. “It’s me, dear. Martha. May I come in?”
“Yes,” Emily said, subdued.
Martha walked into the bedroom, carrying several oranges and apples. “Well, it looks like someone’s all ready for bed!”
“Where’s Jane?” Emily quickly asked.
Martha looked off to the side. “Detective Jane had a very important meeting.”
Emily analyzed Martha’s face. “You’re lying.”
Martha was caught off guard. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Your face told me,” Emily said, not taking her eyes off of Martha. “She’s not at a meeting. She left. And she’s not coming back,”
Martha sat next to Emily on the bed, wrapping her arm around the child’s shoulders. “Now, dear. Don’t you worry one little snippet about Detective Jane. She can take care of herself—”
“No,” Emily interrupted. “She can’t!”
“Sweetheart,” Martha tousled Emily’s brown hair. “Did Detective Jane tell you that she couldn’t take care of herself?”
Emily studied Martha’s inquiring eyes and felt uneasy. “No. She’s strong. She could fight anybody and win. If someone was trying to hurt me, she’d beat them up and save me.”
Martha let out a little derisive chortle. “My! She certainly has told you a big barrel of bragging.”
“She didn’t say any of that,” Emily pulled away. “I just have to know it.”
“Well, okay,” Martha said, not taking Emily too seriously. “I brought you some oranges and apples—”
“No, thank you.” Emily stared out the window. Martha let out a low sigh. “Alright, then. I’ll say good night.” She got up. “I’ll be downstairs, sleeping on the couch if you need me.”
Tat-tat-tat!
Emily jumped to attention. “What’s that?” she said, startled.
Martha opened Emily’s door and peeked downstairs into the living room. “It’s just the wind, dear. It’s blown the curtain rod against the table.”
“You’ve got the window open?” Emily said, concerned.
“Well, my goodness, yes. I have several windows open. It was so stuffy down there. You shouldn’t sleep in a stuffy house. It’s not good for you!”
“Please close all those windows!” Emily implored.
“Sweetie, fresh air—”
“You can’t have the doors open and you can’t have the windows open!”
“Emily, dear, calm down.” Martha sat back on the bed, observing the child. “Look at you. You’re shaking. What