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Evidence of Murder

By Jill Elizabeth Nelson

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Excerpt. (c) Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A muted clatter outside her bedroom window jerked Sam awake. Save for the glow from her bedside clock, her room lay wrapped in darkness. She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at the time. The digital numbers read 1:32 a.m. A sharp bang resounded below.

Outside or inside? Her heart kabumped and every nerve ending buzzed. Maybe it was just some critter digging in the garbage. Not likely. She’d closed that lid.

Bastian mewled and leaped up on the captain’s bench in front of the window, his lean form a shadowy outline. The direction of his stare was fixed as if he could see through the curtains and make out something—or someone—in the alley. A rattle carried to Sam’s ears. That sounded like an attempt at the private entrance door.

Muscles rigid, Sam lay motionless. Her pulse throbbed.

Bastian growled, deep and low.

She couldn’t just lie there until whoever it was found her and did whatever he came to do. How many books had she read where the stupid character did that? Or, dumber still, snuck around with some lame weapon like a bat to try and nab the burglar herself? She’d always wanted to yell, “What do you think nine-one-one is for, dummy?”

As suddenly as the paralysis had gripped her, it lifted. Sam sprang upright and grabbed the cordless phone from her nightstand. A few punches and she was talking to a no-nonsense woman who took her information and promised to get a car there immediately.

With the line still open to the dispatcher, Sam scooped Bastian up and perched on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness. Her hand ran the length of her cat’s back. Again. Again. Bastain’s fur crackled and stood on end. He hopped off her lap, growling a protest. The operator kept assuring her help was on the way, but where were they? Sam gripped the edges of the mattress, ears perked. Sure, the police hung around here all day, and now when she needed them—

Sirens blared outside and lights flashed. Voices yelled, followed by clatters, then quiet. The cruiser lights continued to strobe.

Her intercom buzzer sounded. On jelly legs, Sam padded to her kitchen and answered.

“Ms. Reid, this is Officer Johnson of the Apple Valley Police Department. Your intruder says he has a right to be here. Would you mind coming down?”

Why did the police always ask questions like a person really had the option to say no? “Let me get my robe.”

A few seconds later, Sam unlocked her private entrance and peered out into the night. Under the entrance light, a pair of officers she’d never seen held a man between them—someone she did recognize. She glared up into the stone face of Ryan Davidson.

Their gazes locked, and raw emotion flickered in those intense blue eyes. The power of his bewildered pain snagged her breath. In times not long enough past, she’d seen that look of a stunned victim in another pair of eyes . . . whenever she looked in the mirror.

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