toward the front window.
“It’s not open,” Garret corrected him. “Megan just wanted to go inside and look around some. No one else is there.”
Barry looked slightly perplexed. “Wonder why she left the back open if she’s there by herself.”
“What’re you talking about?” Garret felt uneasy.
“Well, town’s so busy that I parked behind the newspaper. That’s when I noticed the back door ajar. Figured someone was working late. But it seemed kinda odd, this being a Friday, and with Rory just passing away.”
Garret frowned. “You saying the back door was open?”
“Yep.” Barry nodded. “Propped with a trash can.”
Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it wasn’t. But as Garret slowly stood, he knew he needed to find out. “Hey, Jeanie, hold off on that chowder for now. I need to go check on something.” And without saying another word, he hurried outside. It was possible he was just overreacting. Or looking for an excuse to talk to Megan again. But it didn’t really matter. As he jogged across the street, he knew, even if he was being melodramatic, there was no way he wasn’t going to find out why that back door was open.
* * *
With her attacker’s knee still painfully pressed into the middle of her back, Megan could barely breathe, let alone speak. Not that she knew what to say, besides plead for her life. With the side of her head flattened against the gritty floor, she could see, just barely, from one eye. And unless she imagined it, she detected a bluish light on the wood plank floor. Like the light from a cell phone.
In the next instant she could hear what sounded like the thug above her sending a text message. Really? Who was he texting and why? “Are you on your phone?” she gasped.
He swore at her, pressing his knee down even harder. She tried to think of reasons a thug would text someone while pinning down his victim. Was it possible he was asking someone for instructions—like what he should do with her?
As impossible as it seemed, she suddenly wondered if he might be a security guard. Perhaps he’d assumed she was an intruder and he was simply doing his job. Although it seemed unlikely, it was preferable to the alternative.
Still messing with his phone, the thug eased his knee slightly from her back, allowing her to take in a bigger breath and speak. “I’m Rory McCallister’s daughter. I didn’t break in. My father owns this—”
“Your father’s dead!” he growled, pressing his knee so hard into her midsection that she imagined her ribs cracking.
With him still distracted with his phone, she strained to look at him from the corner of her eye. He had on black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. The hood was pulled low over his face, but she could see that his skin was pale. Ghostly pale. And pock-marked. He looked to be in his twenties. She didn’t recognize him. She saw him slip his phone into his sweatshirt pocket and suddenly he struggled to reach something from behind him. Was he trying to extract something from a back pocket or maybe from his belt? A firearm perhaps. The pressure from his knee eased up as he worked to get whatever it was he was looking for.
“Why are you doing this?” she said quietly, hoping to reason with him. “You don’t even know me and—”
Swearing at her, he used his free hand to smack the back of her head again. This creep was no security guard.
“Please, let me go,” she begged. “Please.”
Just then, she heard the swishing sound of metal, almost like a sword being extracted from a sheath. Probably the weapon he was trying to get out of his belt. From the corner of her eye, she saw a metallic flash and when he raised his arm in the air, she could see what appeared to be a large hunting knife in his hand.
“Please, don’t,” she cried. “Whatever you’re about to do—stop!” She tried to think of a way to dissuade him. “I have money! In my purse!” she shrieked. “You can have it all and I can pay you more if you let me go. My father just died—I’ll have even more money.” An exaggeration, yes, but she was desperate. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ll give you whatever—”
He swore again as he grabbed a fistful of her long hair. Jerking her head back so hard she thought her neck would snap, he let out a low, guttural chuckle, so evil-sounding that her flesh crawled in raw terror. This monster would enjoy murdering her. She knew it was hopeless. He planned to slit her throat.
But she would not go down without a fight.
Exhausted after what she now realized was a futile struggle, Megan racked her brain for another way out. She tried to catch her breath as she braced herself for her assailant’s next move, but a noise from the front of the building distracted him. Knowing such an action could give him reason to finish her off, she decided to take the chance, anyway. With what little air remained in her lungs and her last ounce of energy, she let out a shrill scream for help.
Her cries were answered by the fast clomp of footsteps. Someone was running this way, and in the next moment she felt the weight of her attacker’s knee lifted from her. Gasping for breath, she spun away and, scrambling across the gritty floor, she ducked under a staff writer’s desk. Cowering in the knee-space, she listened as a scuffle ensued. She wished she had her phone, but her purse was still on Barb’s desk. And she wondered about her rescuer. Who was he? And how could she help him?
As she felt around the top of the desk, hoping for a paperweight or something to use as a weapon, she heard the sounds of running footsteps and spied both men racing toward the back of the building, followed by the slamming of the back door—then silence.
Still shaking from head to toe, she could barely think straight. What had just happened? And why? As she hurried up front to get her purse and phone, she begged God to help whoever it was that had suddenly jumped into the fray. She’d just reached the front of the building when she heard footsteps in the rear—running toward her.
“Hello?” a male voice yelled. “Where are you?”
Megan was afraid to answer as she ducked behind Barb’s big reception desk, wishing she’d grabbed her phone. Who was it? The man who wanted to slit her throat? Or the one who’d chased him away? Or could it be someone else? Someone connected to her attacker? Hadn’t he texted someone, a cohort perhaps?
“Megan?” the man yelled from the center of the building. “Are you okay?”
Still feeling shocked and confused, Megan tried to think. Who was calling for her by name?
“It’s Garret Larsson,” the voice declared. “Are you still here, Megan?”
She barely poked her head above the desk, peeking over the edge to be certain it was Garret. “It’s you!” She stood in relief, trying to control her shaking knees.
“Are you okay?” Garret hurried toward her.
“Yeah, I guess, just shaken.” She brushed the dust from the front of her shirt and pants as she looked at him. “What happened?”
“That’s what I want to know.” He took her hand, leading her to a chair by the front door, helping her to sit down.
“What happened to that—that guy?” She heard the tremor in her voice.
“I chased him, nearly caught him.” He paused for a breath. “But I lost him after a couple blocks. I just called 911. Police are on their way.” He sat next to her, looking intently into her face. “What happened? Tell me.”
She took in a steadying breath, trying to appear calm, but knowing that she was close to breaking. “I heard someone in here. I thought it was Arthur. He cleans the press at night sometimes. I went to see.” She shuddered. “And then this—this guy jumped me, pinned me down. He—he had a knife.” She felt herself shaking uncontrollably