Secure Location - By Beverly Long Page 0,5

touched him. “Cruz...be careful, okay?”

He nodded, not trusting his own voice. It was the same thing she’d said to him every morning for six years. Of course, the morning he’d been shot, she’d already been gone for six months.

When he’d woken up in the hospital hours later and she’d been there, the damn pain in his leg had suddenly seemed worth it. She was back.

And then she’d left again. And no amount of pain medication had been able to take that hurt away.

“Yeah, right,” he said. He closed the car door softly and walked toward her condo. When he got to her door, it looked like all the other doors. Almost.

It was ajar. Just inches. But enough that when he looked inside and saw the damage, he knew the truth.

Meg was in trouble. Big trouble.

Chapter Two

When Cruz opened the car door and slid inside, the edges of his dark hair were damp with sweat. He flipped the air on high, and turned to face Meg. “We’ve got a little bit of a situation here,” he said.

Meg’s stomach clenched. Cruz’s voice was soft, not giving anything away. But he wasn’t able to control the emotion in his eyes, as well. He was pissed.

“What?”

He put his hand on her arm. “Somebody was in your condo and they did a real job on it. I called Myers and he and his people are on the way. I want you to stay here until they work the scene.”

In her condo. A real job. She let out a deep breath and sank back into the seat. Cruz dropped his arm, giving Meg the chance she needed to wrench open the door and bolt across the street. He didn’t catch her until she was at the steps.

“Meg, damn it,” he said. “It’s bad.”

“I have to know,” she said. “Please.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. But please don’t touch anything.”

The cupboard doors were open but the shelves were empty, save one lone cup that was so far back that it had escaped attention. Shards of new blue Crate and Barrel plates strewn from one end of the ceramic countertop to the other made a crazy kind of confetti when mixed with the remnants of the sturdy brown stoneware that she’d had since college. The refrigerator door was also open, wrenched so hard that it now hung crookedly. On the top shelf, a plastic pitcher lay on its side, the orange juice pooled around it, contained by the upturned edge of the shelf. The eggs she’d bought two days ago had been thrown at the stove and yolk and shell and slimy egg white had dried on the black front.

On the small table that separated her kitchen from the living room, the plant had been upturned, sending potting soil flying. What she could see of the living room didn’t encourage her to look further. The cushions were still on the couch but each had a haphazard slice in the fabric. The entertainment center had been pushed over and the television was facedown on the carpet. It looked as if someone had hacked the back of it with an ax.

“I...I’ve been...wanting a flat screen,” she said. She forced a smile at Cruz and knew she’d failed when his mouth tightened even more.

“Well, then,” he said. He paused. “It’s gonna be okay, Meg. I promise.”

Her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. What if she’d been home? What if she’d been sleeping and had awakened to find this kind of madness looming over her?

Would she be dead?

Cruz stepped in front of her, maybe to get her attention, maybe just to block the room. “And you still have no idea who might do this?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said. This was so destructive, maybe even hateful. No one hated her.

Did they? Someone had, but it had been years ago. Twenty, in fact. Margaret Mae Gunderson had let everyone down. And there had been hate.

But how could anyone believe that the price she’d paid had not been dear enough?

A car door slammed. Then two more in quick succession. Cruz was already at the front door. “Myers and his team.”

It took them over two hours to work their way through the mess. Meg followed them from the living room back to the bedrooms. The spare room, which served as her office, had the least damage. The carpet was wet and her books sat in a sodden pile in the middle. The bucket the intruder had used to carry