Page 47 of Burning Justice

She leaned back against the counter. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. I need you to lock all the doors and windows in the house, and keep them that way.”

“Okay.” Grimacing, she looked at the small cardboard box in a corner of the living room—the one containing all the brass window sash locks she hadn’t gotten around to installing yet. They’d been delivered over a week ago, but she’d gotten so caught up in the case that work on the house had come to a grinding halt. Luckily, there wasn’t much of anything of value inside, other than her power tools.

“I’ve gotta go, but there’s one more thing,” Brett continued. “I’m calling a friend of mine to stay with you until I can get there. His name’s Evan McGarry. He’s an FBI agent.”

“An FBI agent?” Did she really need a babysitter? Although it was kinda sweet of Brett to make sure she was safe. Nah, not sweet. What agent wouldn’t warn his partner that a gun-crazed arsonist might pop in any second?

“Humor me, will you? You’ll like him. He’s got a dog, too.”

“Always a plus.” It certainly was with Brett. Blaze had won her over even before Brett had.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

After Brett ended the call, Gemma set her phone on the counter.

Had he? Won her over?

Well, she certainly didn’t dislike him, and she didn’t distrust him anymore. In fact, she really liked him. Didn’t hurt that he was an awesome kisser.

First, she locked the kitchen door, then went to the front door and twisted the deadbolt. Then she went through every room on the ground floor, checking all the windows and closing the few she’d opened to let in fresh air. Luckily, the arid climate was low on bugs. Just about every house in Colorado had air conditioning, but AC cost money. Money that needed to go into the renovation, so she’d spent the summer saving money by opening windows. And sweating my ass off.

Next, she headed for the basement. Not many houses in this area had a walk-out basement. That was one of the many things she’d fallen in love with about her little Victorian fixer-upper. AKA the money pit.

She opened the door to the basement and flipped on the lights. The old stairs creaked in protest. With every step, musty smells wafted to her nose. It never ceased to amaze her that even in Denver’s arid climate, a basement could still be musty.

One wall was stacked high with plastic bins containing personal belongings she’d stashed down here so they wouldn’t get covered with sawdust. Only the bare necessities ever made it upstairs.

She checked the basement door to the backyard. Satisfied that it was locked, she headed for the stairs but stopped. A small pile of sawdust sat in the middle of the concrete floor. She squatted next to it and pushed her fingers through the pile. On closer inspection, the pile was fresh. It could have been stuck to the bottom of one of the plastic bins when she’d moved them down here. Prior to purchasing the house, she’d had it inspected, but if her inspector had dropped the ball and the whole house—not just the outside deck—turned out to be infested with termites, she wanted a refund.

Back upstairs, she reluctantly flipped on the ground floor AC. A moment later, the condenser kicked on, and cool air whooshed through the vents. This was the sound of money zooming out of her bank account.

Her stomach growled again. Time for scrambled eggs. Not nearly as good as Piggly’s barbecue would have been, but it would have to do.

Being careful not to trip over the portable compressor or the pneumatic nailer cord, she went into the kitchen and pulled out eggs, butter, and cheddar cheese from the fridge, along with utensils from a cabinet. After cracking the eggs into the bowl, she began whisking when a clunking sound came from behind her.

Gemma turned, not seeing anything. She began whisking again, and again the same sound. Closer.

Louder.

Hair at her nape prickled, and somehow…she knew.

I’m not alone.

Slowly, she turned, then sucked in a quick breath.

A man stood in the doorway to the kitchen. A ball cap covered his head. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes.

She gripped the whisk tighter, vaguely aware of raw, runny eggs dripping down her hand. Her heart hammered, and she sucked in more quick breaths. “Get out of my house.” Stupid though the words sounded, it was the first thing she’d thought of.

Instead of turning tail and making for the door, he charged her. She threw the whisk at his face, but he easily dodged her culinary weapon.

She lunged for the butcher block of knives but never made it. Strong hands grabbed her waist, spinning her, then wrapping around her neck.

Gemma gasped for air but couldn’t even gasp. He’d cut off her airway. She swatted at his hands, then curled her fingers around his to pull them away, but he was too strong. Not that it mattered, what with him on the verge of crushing her trachea, but some part of her brain registered that he wore gloves.

She tried hitting him in the face, but her blows were ineffective. He pressed his body against hers, pinning her back against the counter ledge. She couldn’t even knee him in the balls, and with no weapon within reach, she’d soon be unconscious, and after that…dead.