Chapter Twenty-Two

Margo Angelhart

At 10:30 p.m., Jack dropped me off at home.

I loved my little house. I fixed it up myself with Jack's help, hiring a professional contractor to tackle the big projects like updating the kitchen. While I still had some items left on my to-do list—for when I had extra time and money—my home had become my sanctuary.

I headed straight to my home office, planning to do more research on both Jennifer White and Brittney Monroe. But as soon as I switched on the light, I froze.

Someone had been in my office.

Everything on my desk had been moved, my files had been looked through. It wouldn't be obvious to anyone but me, but I kept my space organized. It was as if someone had picked up every item and put them down in a slightly different place.

First thought? Brittney Monroe had hired someone to investigate me.

Hand on my gun, I slowly turned around the room. I didn't expect that someone was still here—I didn't sense another human breathing—but I didn't assume anything.

The closet door was open an inch.

I pulled my gun—the lightweight Smith Wesson 9mm, which I preferred when carrying concealed—and searched the entire house. The sliding door that went into the backyard was unlocked. I squatted and inspected the handle; each screw was loose. Someone had removed the handle, opened the door, then replaced the handle.

I checked every other door in the house; the dead bolt in the laundry room was undone. The intruder came in through my bedroom slider, and left through the laundry room.

The only things of value that weren't locked in my safe were my generous supply of ammunition, computer, television, and a couple pieces of decent jewelry. Nothing was missing.

Someone had broken in, but hadn't taken anything. And based on moving my stuff, not securing the back door or the deadbolt, the intruder wanted me to know that he had breached my home.

If so, why not leave a note? Make more of a mess? Most people wouldn't notice small disturbances in their space; I wasn't most people.

I was angry. Someone had come into my home and gone through my things. Not a thief, not family. A stranger with an unknown motive.

I called Theo, who had a key. He would tell me if he came by, but I couldn't think of anyone else.

He answered on the first ring. "Yo, Angel, what's up?"

A video game played in the background.

"Did you come by my house tonight?"

"Your house? Nope. You need something?"

"Just covering my bases." I hesitated, then said, "Someone broke in."

"No shit? You need me there? I can be there in ten."

"No, I can handle it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't you."

"I wouldn't, not without giving you a heads-up. You okay?"

"Just mad."

"Your guns all there?"

"Yep."

"Nothing was taken? Not even all that ammo you have stashed in the laundry room?"

"Nope."

"Weird."

Very."I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I was about to end the call when Theo said, "You think the asshole found you?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," I said. "I know a lot of assholes."

"The one who beats his wife. You told me to keep an eye out, right? Just in case, you said. So I have. Haven't seen anything, but maybe you need to keep an eye out. It was you who fucked with him. Not that he didn't deserve it. How would he know where you live?"

I stared at the ceiling, a litany of swear words running through my head, though I only uttered one. "Fuck. Watch your back, Theo." I ended the call.

That was fast, but Theo was right. Peter Carillo was a cop. I'd been careful, didn't drive by the front of his house, but what if he talked to neighbors? What if someone else caught my Jeep on camera?

Any cop could run my license plate and get my name, address, driver's license, social, driving restrictions. There would be a log, but that log was only accessible to certain people in the department. I couldn't just call a beat cop like my cousin Josie to find out who'd run my plates, I'd need someone higher up.

Like my sometimes-boyfriend, Phoenix PD Sergeant Rick Devlin.

I hadn't talked to Rick in months. While Jack knew more cops than I did, I didn't want to bring my family into this. Annie Carillo was my case, and I needed to take care of my own.

If State Trooper Peter Carillo had run my plates, then he had most likely broken in to find out where his wife was. Maybe he thought she was here.

And I had to figure out what to do about it, because proving he broke in would be next to impossible.