The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele #1) - Carolyn Arnold Page 0,1

sidelight. She jumped back.

A man was on the other side. There was a scratching noise at the knob.

She couldn’t get herself to move toward the stairwell for her third-floor apartment. Her legs weren’t responding.

The handle turned—the sound had been a key in the lock—and a man she recognized as another tenant stepped inside.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” She could barely squeeze out the tiny word as she rushed to push the door shut again.

He took off toward his apartment, leaving her in the small entry, heaving for breath like she’d run a marathon. She jogged to her apartment, threw the deadbolt and linked the chain, and fell against the door. Safe. For now she had escaped the wolf on her trail.

She dropped her bag and jacket on the floor and rushed to the kitchen. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon had her name all over it. She guzzled some back, assuring herself that soon all would be better, and took some wine in a glass with her down the hall.

She ran the water hot, got undressed and under the spray, closed her eyes and let her mind drift to dreams of a future that didn’t include dancing for money, and where her past was so far behind her she couldn’t recall it. A time, flashing forward, when she obtained her nursing license and had a job in a doctor’s office or a hospital.

A thud.

Her eyes shot open and she turned off the taps to listen. All was silent except for her breathing and the pounding of her heart in her ears. It had to simply be paranoia eating away at her sanity. She was, after all, in a locked apartment, in a locked building. But doubt gnawed on her. If someone were determined enough, they could find their way in. Pick a lock, come up with a ruse, or let themselves in on the heels of another tenant.

She squeezed her eyes shut, took some long breaths and calmed her nattering mind. There. All was better.

The shower curtain was ripped down, and the man from the club was standing there.

A scream curdled in her throat.

She scrambled to get around him but there was no way past. Her feet slipped on the wet surface of the tub and her arms sprang out to help her offset her balance, but he had a hold on her. He yanked her out of the tub and slammed her to the floor.

Her head smacked against the tile, and sparkles of white light danced across her vision.

He lowered himself on top of her, pinning her. “Where is it?” His breath smelled like stale cigarettes and whiskey.

“I…” Her eyes rolled back and there was brief, inviting darkness. A place where pain didn’t exist.

He slapped her across the face and clamped her jaw in his hand. “Tell me!”

She wanted to fight, to show him that she’d learned her power since she’d escaped. But her mind wasn’t working, and she didn’t have the strength to move.

He stood and pulled a gun.

She couldn’t get her mouth to work or she’d tell him where it was. That might give her a chance of survival.

“You want to die? Tell me where it is!” he roared.

Tears fell down her cheeks. “I—I—” Her mind went blank; her thoughts encased within a web of thick gauze.

“Stupid bitch!”

She barely had a chance to blink when the bullet hit, but her final thought was, The wolf caught me, and now I can stop running and rest.

One

Woodbridge, Virginia

Sunday, January 10th, 11:30 PM Eastern Time

Amanda Steele threw her legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her underwear from the floor, and stepped into them. In the dimly lit room, she followed the trail of clothing, collecting each piece as she went along.

“Where ya goin’, darlin’?” the man, whatever-his-name, said.

First rule of one-night stands: no names.

She kept moving but pinched her eyes shut. It was January tenth, the start of a new year, and, while most people were still clinging to their resolutions, she’d resumed old habits: sleeping with strangers. But she knew better than to deceive herself into thinking she’d change. There was only one adjustment she was interested in making and it was outside of her abilities. It would require a time machine. Only she’d go further back than three hours ago when she’d picked up the handsome guy drinking beer in a Woodbridge bar.

“Come on, don’t you want to stay? We can—”

“I don’t spend the night.” Rule two. She was surprised by how often she had to tell the men