Noises from outside kept her on edge. Branches banged against the sides of the cabin; the rain thrummed loudly and steadily on the roof. Even the crackle of the fire made it difficult to determine whether or not she heard someone moving around.
It was unlikely, she told herself. If the person who had her gun had intended to hurt her tonight, he would've done it already. She had a kitchen knife for a weapon, but a knife wasn't much use against a gun. Considering her isolation, she was easy prey. So she doubted her visitor had hung around with plans to harm her. For now he--or she--was only out to deliver a message.
She knew that and yet she couldn't relax.
Holding her breath, she closed her eyes so she could focus on differentiating between the various rustling, tapping and scratching noises. But, in the end, concentrating didn't help. Her nerves were working against her. She couldn't tell what was real and what she'd imagined.
Calm down. Her palm began to sweat on the handle of the knife, but she didn't release it.
She tried to occupy her mind by puzzling out who might've written the note. It had to be someone who knew her and what she was working on, someone who was familiar with the Barker case and had a personal stake in it.
Unfortunately, that didn't bring a lot of possibilities to mind. Most people in Stillwater wanted her to get to the truth. The Montgomerys were the only ones she knew of, besides Jed Fowler perhaps, who weren't particularly forthcoming.
Could it be Clay?
The thought crept in, even though she'd been carefully avoiding it. She'd told no one else where she'd be tonight.
But he was too smart to write a note that would make him look worse than he already did.
And he'd told her not to come to the cabin alone. Would he encourage her to bring a friend if he planned to break into her car and frighten her half to death?
She didn't think so. It had to be someone else. Someone who wanted her to believe it was Clay....
Joe Vincelli? Joe's father or another member of the Vincelli clan? Beth Ann?
A car door slammed, and Allie froze. Maybe she was about to find out.
Scrambling to her feet, she pressed herself against the inside wall of the cabin listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Whoever it was wouldn't be able to get in through the door.
But he--or she--could break the window.
A loud knock made her knees go weak.
"Allie? Are you in there?"
Clay! She recognized his voice immediately and nearly called out to him. But she was afraid she'd been a fool to trust him so much. Had she been blinded by his legendary sex appeal?
It was possible. Anything was possible. At the moment, she doubted herself, doubted everyone.
"Allie, open the door," he said. "What happened to your car? Why's the passenger window broken?"
The doorknob rattled. Icy tentacles of fear tightened every muscle--and yet Allie's first instinct, even now, was to let him in. She would have, if not for the echo of her father's voice in her head... you got into his car, knowing he could be dangerous...
"Allie, answer me! Are you okay?"
If Clay intended to hurt her, he'd had his chance last weekend.
Her reaction wasn't logical, but fear rarely was. Fear said if she lowered her defenses and she was wrong, he could kill her, bury her in the woods and drive back to town as if he'd never even left the farm--and no one would be the wiser. She'd simply be gone. Like Barker. Just as the note promised.
The fingernails of her free hand curled into her palm as she heard Clay move to the window. Would he break it?
She waited, heart racing, as she wondered if she'd have to defend herself against the man she'd started fantasizing about.
But when she heard his voice again, he was heading toward the river, probably searching for the outhouse she'd told him about, hoping he'd find her there.
"Allie!" The wind tossed his voice about. Her name seemed to echo against the trees, mixing with the melee of thunder and wind and rain. He must be getting soaked.
If he wasn't responsible for the night's events, what was he doing out here?
Think, she ordered herself. Think, think, think! She needed to clear her head; her imagination was getting the best of her. She didn't believe Clay had killed Barker, at least not purposely. And she couldn't believe he'd harm her now. She trusted him.
Enough to bet her life on opening the door?
She remembered the humiliation she'd sensed in him when she'd made him remove his shirt the night Beth Ann had accused him of murder. Beneath the tough exterior, Clay was a good man.
Her gut had told her that from the beginning and her gut was all she had to rely on.
Taking a deep breath, she set the knife aside and started to shove the bookcase out of the way. But then she heard a muttered curse right outside the cabin, too close to be Clay. Clay was still calling for her down by the river.
Was the person who'd taken her gun still there? If so, why?
Joe's face, angry and vindictive, flashed through Allie's mind. The only answer she could come up with was that this was some kind of setup. No doubt Beth Ann had convinced Joe, along with half the town, that Allie wouldn't put Clay behind bars even if he deserved it. Maybe Joe had gotten tired of waiting for justice and decided to take the law into his own hands. Joe and his father and brother had been fishing with Allie's father a couple of times, so they knew about the cabin. It was possible that Joe had enticed Clay to the lake on false pretenses.
And if that was true...
Allie's stomach tensed. If that was true, she'd just let Clay walk into a trap.
She had to warn him. Now! But it had taken her a full fifteen minutes to slide the bookcase in front of the door. She couldn't move it in a matter of seconds.
Unable to stop the terrible images bombarding her brain--images of Joe creeping up behind Clay with her Glock--she tore half the books off the shelves, kicked the unit over and used the wall to give her some leverage as she pushed.
"Allie?" Clay was still calling her.
"Stop! Get down!" she cried out in panic and frustration. But she knew he couldn't hear her.
Each agonizing second seemed to last an hour as she moved the bookcase inch by inch.
Finally, she was able to open the door enough to slip through. "Clay!"
Clay's truck was parked right in front. Even without a flashlight she could tell that someone had punctured two of his tires.
Someone who didn't want him to leave. Which frightened her more than anything.
"Clay, get down! Don't say a word!" she yelled. Her cry echoed back to her as she charged after him. But it was too late. A shot rang out before she'd taken five steps. She heard a gasp to her left. Then someone went crashing through the woods to her right.