Fatal Exposure Read Free

her agent and two close friends. And the media couldn’t have found her this fast. She’d bought the historic row house under a fictitious name.
    The doorbell sounded again.
    She silently disconnected the phone. All her senses hyperalert, she tiptoed across the kitchen to the door, careful not to make any noise. She stopped and held her breath, afraid that even the tiniest hitch would give her away. Then she put her eye to the peephole and peeked out.
    A man scowled back. She took in his black, slashing brows, the harsh angles of his chiseled face, the dark beard scruff shadowing his jaw. He was tall, in his late thirties with a strong neck roped with tendons, shoulders as thick as planks. His midnight hair was short, his mouth drawn flat. Authority radiated from him in waves.
    A siren went off in her head. A cop. After a lifetime spent on the streets, she could detect one from a mile away. And even wearing a leather jacket and jeans, everything about this man screamed police.
    Her thoughts whirling wildly, she backed away from the door. He must have seen her come home. He’d probably staked out her house and lain in wait. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t here.
    Struggling not to succumb to panic, she fled back into the kitchen, jerked her coat off the chair, and pulled it on. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder—just as the doorbell sounded again.
    “Be right there,” she called out, hoping to buy some time.
    Knowing she only had seconds to escape him, she sprinted into her small home office, grabbed her laptop from the desk and shoved it into her bag. Then she knelt at the fake outlet beside the bookcase and pried the cover off. She pulled out her stash of emergency cash and added it to her bag, then took out her semiautomatic handgun and slammed a magazine home. She stuck the weapon into an outside pocket of the backpack and rose.
    She spared a glance at the basement but instantly ruled it out. A cop wouldn’t come alone. He probably had a partner watching her backyard—including the tool shed, which hid the cellar door. But she’d prepared for this day, planning for this very emergency. She’d even bought an end-unit row house with this disaster in mind.
    Moving faster now, she raced up her stairs to the guest bathroom, which faced the open side. Then she quietly pushed open the window and peered out into the night. The crisp autumn air chilled her face. The rumble of traffic from the D.C. beltway hummed its usual background noise. A car sped down the street, its headlights sweeping over the ancient oak tree growing beside the house and illuminating the edge of her fenced backyard.
    No sign of a partner. Maybe the cop really had come alone.
    Unwilling to take that gamble, she scrambled onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the nearest branch, the cold bark rough on her palms. But then she paused, her throat tightening with a stab of regret. She was so damned tired of this. She’d spent more than half her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder, always terrified she’d be found. This row house was her first-ever attempt to set down roots, to lead something even remotely resembling a stable life. To have a garden, a home. To put an end to the utter loneliness that plagued her in the dead of night.
    But she knew the futility of dreams. Predators ruled this brutal world, a lesson she’d learned at an early age. And unless she wanted to end up a victim, she had to go on the run again.
    Jerking herself back to reality, she adjusted her grip on the tree branch and swung onto the sprawling limb. She crept to the trunk, inched over the huge, gnarled branch that stretched across the neighbor’s fence, then dropped onto their patio, landing with a muffled thud. Her heart racing, she darted into the bushes and hid.
    For several seconds, she didn’t move. She held her breath, listening for signs that she’d been seen. But no one looked out the neighbor’s window; no one raised an alarm.