stilled from where she worked her way out of the seat belt. “You use that look to get whatever you want, Colton?”
“Did it work?”
“Sadly, yes.”
One of those rare smiles lit up his face. “Then consider it an effective tactic.”
Lizzie allowed Ethan to help her from the elevated passenger seat of his truck, then handed over her keys. “I’ll stay behind you.”
She stayed true to her word but couldn’t fully eliminate the seeds of resentment that took root as she followed him to her front door. This was her home. She’d worked and saved and had been so proud when she’d qualified for the mortgage on her own. All her hard work and dedication, focus and goal setting, had paid off. And ten months ago, she’d signed the papers and moved in.
Now she had to face the fact that someone had threatened all she’d worked for. Worse, they’d threatened the fragile life she protected within her.
“Come on in.” Ethan gestured her through her open front door. “I’ll look around, but everything looks like it’s in place.”
“Everything’s where it should be. The curse of the foster child.”
“Oh?”
The curious “Oh” had gone straight over her head, but the question beneath his question didn’t. Lizzie glanced up from her focused perusal of the front living area. “Sure. Keep things neat as a pin so you don’t give them a reason to get rid of you.”
“You said that without a trace of bitterness.”
“Because I’m not bitter. Not at all.” When he only continued to stare at her, Lizzie pressed on. “I had wonderful people who took care of me. They did the best they could and they did love me.”
“I hear a but there.”
“But I was the stubborn teenager who kept my distance from them. They weren’t my real parents, and I never let them forget it.”
“You sound sad about that.”
“More than you can know. Roy and Rhonda Carlton were my last foster family and they cared for me. They gave me a home, and I didn’t appreciate them nearly enough.”
“My brother Chris mentioned their passing several years back. We thought they might have known—”
Lizzie’s attention sharpened on all Ethan didn’t say. “Thought what?”
“It’s nothing.”
She leveled her own stare on him and knew the well-practiced gesture had a similar effect as his lone eyebrow. Nor did she miss the resigned look or the small exhalation as Ethan paced through her living room, his large frame at odds with the delicate furniture she’d selected.
“Chris is a PI, and he looked into them a bit when we were trying to find out more about Josie. To see if they knew anything. That was about a year after she disappeared and—” his large shoulders rose and fell in a simple shrug “—he discovered they died in a car accident.”
“A hit-and-run on a night full of storms,” she affirmed. “It was a terrible tragedy, but I’ve always taken comfort that they were together.”
“Did they have other foster children at the time?”
“No. After Josie ran away they didn’t seem to have the heart for it any longer. She and I were the last fosters they had.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Didn’t you miss Josie?”
Pain she’d long buried speared through her midsection at the direct mention of his sister. Although she was a year and a half older, Josie had been her best friend, and the two of them had been as close as sisters.
Until the day they weren’t.
“Of course I did. The Carltons practically raised both of us. But she and I had grown apart and then one day she just disappeared.”
“She did that to us, too.” Ethan continued to drift around the room, his restless energy as raw as an impending storm. “Grew apart. Stopped wanting to see us for our court-sanctioned visits. Until the day she just vanished.”
“Did you ever find out where she went?”
“No.” He picked up a small crystal giraffe from her coffee table and turned it over in his hands. Although his gaze was ostensibly on the small piece, Lizzie could tell he was a million miles away. “And no amount of digging by my law-steeped siblings has provided any information.”
As she watched him, another thought hit Lizzie, as powerful as the proverbial storms she saw in Ethan. Curious, she pushed them in a different direction. “You don’t believe the nonsense some asinine journalists have begun spouting about her. The ridiculous notion that she’s taken up your father’s torch and is the Alphabet Killer.”
Ethan stiffened at her words, his normally stoic facade going to granite. “It’s not just the journalists.”
“Who, then?”
“Forget I mentioned it.” Ethan glanced down at the object he had gripped tight in his hands before gently settling it back on the coffee table.
“Come on, Ethan. You can’t tell me you really believe it. I realize none of us knew Josie as well as we thought, but I do know her well enough to know she’s not a killer.”
“No. I don’t believe—”
His words vanished into the air as a hard thud echoed from overhead. Ethan looked up, his gaze sharp. “What room is that? Above us?”
“The baby’s room.”
Another thud sounded above them and Ethan leaped from the room, the heavy tread of his footsteps already echoing as he raced up her stairs.
“Call 911!”
* * *
Ethan was torn between staying with Lizzie downstairs and heading after the intruder in her home, but every instinct screamed to take the option that might end this here and now.
More noise echoed from the upstairs hall and Ethan headed in the direction of the sound, quickly catching his bearings as he ascended to the second-floor landing. A door at the far end of the hall slammed closed and he had no doubt it was now locked as well.
As he moved determinedly toward the door, Ethan mentally cataloged what he knew of the house. It was relatively new and Lizzie was only the second owner, which meant the builder had likely left skeleton keys in the event someone was locked in.
A large quilted giraffe hung from the door and Ethan lifted his hand to the lintel, satisfied when his fingers brushed the thin piece of metal. He had the key in the lock and the door open in moments.
Only to find his rush was in vain.
The empty room’s lone window was already open, its bright pastel-colored curtains blowing in the afternoon breeze.
He crossed the small space in a matter of steps and caught sight of a figure racing across the back of the development. It briefly crossed his mind to follow, but he knew it for a fool’s errand.
“Did you—” Lizzie broke off, her voice heavy and out of breath as she came through the door.
“He’s gone.”
“He?”
“I thought.” Ethan stopped and turned back toward the window. The figure had vanished, but he conjured up the image in his mind. “He was wearing a thick sweatshirt with the hood up, so I guess it could be anyone. They were too far away to get a sense of height.”
“The police will ask what color.”
“It