Hot Blooded Read Free Page B

with the leg? Call me.”
    “I will, Dad. Promise.”
    Several other calls came through with well-wishes for her recovery. She listened to each as she continued opening the bills. Celia, her friend who taught first grade in Napa Valley; Linda, a college roommate who had settled with her cop husband in Oregon; Arla, a friend she’d kept in touch with since grade school. They all seemed to have gotten the word that she’d been hurt, and they all wanted her to call back.
    “It’s great to be popular,” she muttered to the cat, as the receptionist for her dentist called to remind her of her six-month cleaning. The next call was from the Boucher Center, where she did volunteer work, reminding her that her next session was the following Monday.
    She reached for the final envelope—plain, white, legal-sized. No return address. Her name typed on a computer label. With a slit the envelope opened, and the single page dropped onto the desk.
    Her blood froze.
    She stared at a picture of herself. A publicity shot she’d had taken several years ago. It had been copied, then mutilated. Her dark red hair swung around a face with high cheekbones, pointed chin and sexy, nearly naughty smile, but where there had once been mischievous green eyes with thick eyelashes there were only jagged-edged holes as ifwhoever had cut them out was in a hurry. Across her peach-tinged lips was a single word scribbled in red pencil:
    REPENT.
    “Oh, God.” She pushed herself away from the desk, repelled. For a second she couldn’t breathe.
    She heard a scraping sound on the porch.
    As if someone had been watching through the window and was hurrying away. Footsteps.
    “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, whipping around in her chair and stumbling to the window only to look out at the dark, lonely night. The tick of the clock was barely audible over the beating of her heart, and as she stared through the steamy glass, the recorder played the next message.
    “I know what you did,” a male voice whispered in a low, sexy tone.
    Sam spun around and glared at the machine with its flashing red light.
    “And you’re not going to get away with it.” The voice wasn’t harsh, not at all. In fact it was seductive, nearly caressing, as if the caller knew her personally. Sam’s skin crawled. “You’re going to have to pay for your sins.”
    “You bastard!”
    Charon hissed and jumped from the sill.
    The recorder clicked off and went silent. The house seemed to close in on her, the shadowy corners of the walls, darkening. Was it her imagination, or did she hear footsteps running across the yard?
    She took in several deep breaths, then, using her crutch, checked all the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows.
It’s a prank,
she told herself,
nothing sinister.
In her line of work she was a quasi celebrity, one who invited the public to contact her, to help them with their problems, to get to know her. As a radio psychologist she dealt with people’s problems and phobias every night while she was on the air. And this wasn’t the first time that her private lifehad been violated; it wouldn’t be the last. She thought about calling the police or David or someone, but the last thing she wanted to appear to be was a hysterical, paranoid woman. Especially to herself.
    She was a professional.
    A doctor of psychology.
    She didn’t want to risk public disdain. Not again.
    Her heart thundered, and she slowly let out her breath. She’d have to call the police whether she wanted to or not. But not yet. Not tonight. She double-checked all the locks and told herself to remain calm, go upstairs, read a book and tomorrow, in the morning light, reassess what had happened to her. There was just no reason to panic. Right? No one would seriously want to do her harm.
    Repent?
    Pay for her sins?
    What
sins?
    The guy was psyching her out. Which was probably his point. “Come on, big guy,” she called to the cat, “let’s go upstairs.” It was her first night