Danger at Her Door. Beth Cornelison

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      “Daddy?”

      Caitlyn’s summons snapped him out of his sultry daydreams. “Yeah, I thought she was pretty.”

      For crying out loud, he didn’t even know if Megan was married. He had no business fantasizing about her. Even if he was in the midst of months-long sex depravation.

      Caitlyn clambered onto his lap, her bony knees and elbows jabbing him awkwardly. “Can I go to her house sometime and play with Sam?”

      “I don’t know, Cait. Sam’s not the sort of dog I want you playing with. He was pretty big and—” Mean.

      She slapped her arms across her chest and poked out her lip. His little drama queen.

      Cut to the chase. You’ve got an article to write.

      “You could get hurt if you don’t obey the rules. The rules are: don’t go outside alone, don’t go in the street and don’t pat strange dogs. Okay?”

      “But I didn’t get hurt!”

      “Caitlyn, the point is—”

      The loud jangling of the telephone interrupted the point.

      “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he told Caitlyn and shoved off the sofa.

      Snatching up the phone, he balanced the receiver on his shoulder while he rummaged through the freezer for a frozen dinner he could zap in the microwave for Caitlyn’s supper. “H’lo?”

      “Jack? Burt, here.”

      As soon as his boss said his name, Jack winced. With all the interruptions this afternoon, he hadn’t finished his article for tomorrow morning’s edition. Without looking at the clock, he knew he’d missed his deadline.

      “Burt, I know. I’m late. I’m sorry.”

      Aggravation knotted Jack’s stomach. He’d never get the big story assignments and lead headlines if he couldn’t even get the fluff articles on Burt’s desk by deadline. Generally, Burt Harwood, the news editor, cut him a lot of slack. He knew Jack’s situation as a single father in a new town. He made allowances for Jack missing a deadline here and there.

      But Jack didn’t want allowances. He wanted better assignments, bigger pieces to write, more credit for his journalistic talent. He wanted to prove to his boss he could handle his job and his family.

      He could do it. He would do it. Lauren had given him no choice.

      “Listen, Burt, I’ll have the piece on the sheriff candidates’ rally finished tonight.” He expelled a whoosh of air in frustration. “Give me until nine. Caitlyn goes to bed by eight, and I’ll e-mail you the article as soon as it’s done. I swear. Things have been crazy around—”

      “Listen, forget the candidates rally for now. We’ve got something breaking down at the police station.”

      Jack perked up. He smelled a big story. This could be his break. Finally.

      “They’ve arrested a guy—some white-collar banker type—turned in by his girlfriend. They think he could be connected to an old serial rape case they never solved. One the cops dubbed ‘The Gentleman Rapist’ because the guy gained entry to the women’s houses by posing as a cop doing courtesy security checks. The Good Samaritan ploy.”

      Good Samaritan… Jack’s thoughts flickered briefly to Megan. Her shy smile. Her flushed cheeks and clingy, sweat-dampened T-shirt.

      With a shake of his head, Jack refocused his thoughts. “Burt, I want this story. Give me this one, and you won’t be sorry.”

      “Can you get down to the police department tonight and get the particulars for the morning edition?”

      Jack grimaced as he slid Caitlyn’s dinner in the microwave. “Not tonight. I don’t have a babysitter.”

      “Then I’m sending Parker.”

      Jack’s stomach clenched in irritation. “Look, Caitlyn has preschool in the morning. I’ll be free to talk to the cops then. I’ll talk to the guy’s neighbors. I’ll call his first-grade teacher if I have to, but I’ll get you the story. You know I can write a better story than Parker. I’ll find a fresh angle, something that the TV guys and the Lagniappe Herald missed.”

      Jack raked his fingers through his hair, searching for the tidbit that would tip the scales in his favor. He hoped that mentioning the Herald, the other newspaper in town, would appeal to Burt’s competitive nature.

      “I’m sending Parker.” Burt hesitated and sighed. “But you can pick up the story in the morning. After I see what you and Parker each bring to the story, I’ll make my final assignment. Don’t let me down on this, Jack. This is the biggest story to break in this town for months.”

      “I hear you, Burt. And I won’t let you down.”

      

      The next morning, Megan stared at the men lined up behind the one-way glass and fought the urge to throw up. Anxiety, anger and frustration twisted inside her until she thought she might shatter under the pressure.

      But not now. Right now she had to pull herself together. She had a job to do. The sooner she did her job, the sooner she could get out of the small room where the walls seemed to close in on her. The stale odor of cigarettes and the noxious fumes of floor cleaner hung in the air, contributing to her queasiness.

      More unsettling were all the uniforms gathered around her, the men with guns on their hips and badges on their chests.

      Policemen are our friends, she’d taught her class on career day. They protect us and help us during emergencies.

      But the man who had attacked her had exploited her trust in a police uniform, used that trust to get inside her home. And the sea of blue uniforms was a too-vivid reminder of the army of officers who’d replied to her 911 call and tramped through her home gathering evidence. They’d asked endless questions when all she wanted to do was block out the horrid images and escape the sounds replaying in her head.

      Beside her, Ginny hovered quietly, her hand on Megan’s shoulder in a silent show of support.

      “Do you recognize anything about any of them?” The police detective in the dark room with them asked his questions in low, modulated tones. Ginny and the detective had taken pains to make Megan’s task as easy on her as possible. Still, the notion that one of the men in the next room, lined up for her inspection, could be the man who’d haunted her for five years sent a chill slithering down her spine.

      When she tried to answer, no sound left her mouth. After clearing her throat, Megan tried again. “I recognize number three. He’s the man I saw on the news last night.”

      The detective shifted his weight and scribbled in the small notebook in his hand.

      “But—” Her gaze remained locked on the glowering faces behind the window.

      In the periphery of her vision, the detective stopped writing and raised his head. “But what?”

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