Solid as Steele. Rebecca York

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СКАЧАТЬ was a skull mask with glowing red eyes. She had seen him before. First just a glimpse. Then a fuller look. And some deep, primal instinct told her she was dead if he caught up with her.

      “No! Please.”

      She couldn’t let him get her. That thought filled every corner of her mind as she came to a place where the corridor divided.

      Which way? Oh God, which way?

      As he bore relentlessly down on her, she whimpered and chose the left-hand hallway. Only a few steps later, a bright light flashed in her eyes, almost blinding her, but she kept running because that was her only option.

      Then out of the brightness, a black shape loomed in front of her.

      It was him. Somehow he had circled around. He must have used a hidden passage, because now he was blocking her path. In his hand, she saw the glint of metal—the blade of a long, cruel knife.

      She screamed and raised her arm, trying to defend herself. But the knife slashed into her flesh. As he pulled back and swung down for another blow, pain jolted through her.

      Then mercifully, everything went black.

      On a sob, Jamie woke, her fingers clawing at the sheet as she tried to drag herself out of the nightmare house and back to her own reality. To her own bed.

      It had been a dream. Only a dream. But not about her. It was another woman desperately trying to escape from a madman and just as desperately reaching out to Jamie.

      Now the contact had snapped off, vanished as if it had never existed. She wanted to deny that it had been real. Yet in the secret part of her mind, she couldn’t convince herself that it was only a nightmare.

      “No,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and rocking back and forth as she willed it not to be true, but denial was not an option. She had been in that other woman’s mind. Felt the terror coming off of her in waves. And Jamie was pretty sure that the scene of horror had taken place in Gaptown, Maryland, the small city in the state’s western mountains where she had grown up.

      She’d made what she considered her escape, and she’d vowed never to return to a place where she’d hated her life. Yet a woman from home had reached out to her and pulled her back.

      That the contact was in her mind didn’t make it any less real or any less terrifying, and it didn’t absolve her of responsibility to do something.

      She lay in bed shivering, her heart pounding like a drum inside her chest as she watched the headlights of cars travel across the ceiling and wondered whether one of the vehicles was coming for her.

      “Stop it,” she muttered. “You’re safe in your own bed. That man isn’t in Baltimore. He can’t get you.”

      Yes. She was safe. But the other woman…

      She pushed herself up and turned on the bedside lamp, looking around the familiar bedroom. The lamp’s glow was enough for her to see the outlines of the sleek modern chest of drawers and the lower dresser that she’d selected because they were so different from the ugly orange maple pieces back home.

      After slipping out of bed, she pressed her feet against the oak floorboards, shivering a little in the early-morning cold, then stood up, stiffening her knees to steady herself. Hugging her arms around her shoulders, she crossed to the bathroom, where she filled a glass and gulped down several swallows of water.

      She set down the glass with a thunk, then leaned forward and peered at herself in the mirror, seeing her straight blond hair, her troubled blue eyes, the slight tilt of her nose, and lips that were chapped because of her bad habit of taking them between her teeth.

      It was her face. Totally familiar. Yet in the dream she’d been someone else.

      Someone she knew? Maybe. But she didn’t want to deal with that now, because it made the nightmare all the more terrible.

      She’d felt the woman’s panic. Her terrible need to escape. And then the blackness at the end.

      “Oh Lord,” she murmured, her hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink as she struggled with her confused thoughts. One thing she knew for sure. She didn’t want to be alone.

      She had to call someone.

      She knew that her friend Jo O’Malley would listen to her and tell her what to do, even at two in the morning.

      Back in the bedroom, she sat down and picked up the phone, calling the familiar number.

      After two rings, a man’s deep voice said, “Light Street Detective Agency.”

      When she didn’t say anything, he asked, “Is anybody there?”

      “I…I’m sorry,” Jamie stammered. It wasn’t Jo. Lord, why had she even thought that Jo would be in the office to answer the phone? She was home with her husband, Cam Randolph, and her children, Leo and Anna.

      “Jamie?” the man on the other end of the line asked, and she was afraid she knew who he was.

      “Mack?”

      “Yes.”

      Her fingers gripped the receiver more tightly. Mack Steele was the last person she’d wanted to talk to, yet it turned out he was the one on duty.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked.

      “I…nothing,” she answered, feeling her heart start to pound all over again. There was plenty wrong, but she didn’t want to talk about it with him. Not when she was in such a vulnerable state.

      “It’s something or you wouldn’t have called. Is someone outside the house? Did they try to break in?”

      She swallowed hard. “No. Nothing like that. I made a mistake,” she said.

      “Talk to me.”

      “I’ve got to go.”

      Before she could dig herself in any deeper, she replaced the receiver, then sat, shivering, on the side of the bed.

      Jo would be in tomorrow. She’d go to her office before she reported to work at the 43 Light Street Lobby Shop, where she’d been a part-time clerk since she moved to Baltimore. They’d talk tomorrow.

      She longed to crawl back into the warmth of the covers and lose herself in sleep again, but lying there would be a waste of time. She’d only end up staring at more car lights traveling across the ceiling and thinking about the woman. Or thinking about herself.

      And the one rule she’d made after her husband, Craig, had been killed was that she wasn’t going to lie in bed if there was no hope of going back to sleep. Better to get up and do something constructive.

      Which was what?

      She’d been working on some “baking in a jar” projects for the Lobby Shop. Each clear glass container had layers of dry ingredients like flour, spices and dried fruit that made a pretty pattern. But they were also practical—add some liquids and the ingredients made delicious baked goods. And she’d printed up easy directions for each one.

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