Monday Mourning

The figure hesitated, then pulled off the tuque and strode toward us.

Anne’s knuckles went white around her canister.

The figure passed under a sconce. Sandy hair. Bomber jacket.

Relief flooded through me. Followed by embarrassment. And feelings of which I was uncertain.

Defusing Anne with a gesture, I stepped forward.

“What are you doing here?” Whispered, but shrill, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through me.

Ryan’s smile sagged, but held on. “I’ve come to view that greeting as a sign of affection.”

“I’m always saying that because you’re always showing up unexpectedly.

Ryan placed both hands on his chest. “I am a man smitten.” He spread the hands wide. “I cannot stay away.”

Anne lowered her arm, a look of confusion crimping her features.

Ryan turned, preparing to beam charm in Anne’s direction. Seeing the Mace, his smile wavered. He looked a question at me.

Annoyance and embarrassment began a full-court press against fear and relief. If the break-in wasn’t real, I didn’t want to look like a fool.

Unfortunately, at that moment, I suspected I needed both.

“Someone may have broken into my place.”

Ryan didn’t question what I’d said. He spoke without moving.

“How long were you away?”

“A couple of hours. We’ve been back five minutes or less.”

“Did you set the alarm when you left?”

Normally I am good about security. Tonight, Anne and I had been intent on catch-up.

“Probably.” I wasn’t sure.

Pocketing gloves and tuque, Ryan unzipped his jacket, drew his Glock, and gestured us back toward the stairwell.

Anne slid left, back pressed to the wall. I moved behind Ryan.

Ryan twisted sideways against the wall and rapped the door with his gun butt.

“Police! On entre!”

No answer. No movement.

Ryan barked again, in French, then English.

Silence.

Ryan pointed at the lock.

I stepped forward and used my key. Sweeping me back behind him with one arm, Ryan nudged the door open with his foot.

“Stay here.

Gun gripped in both hands, barrel angled skyward, Ryan crossed the threshold. I followed.

Something crunched underfoot.

One step. Two.

The mirrored wall in the foyer gaped densely black. Courtyard light sparked like phosphorous off the marble floor.

Three.

A saffron trapezoid gleamed from the glass-topped table in the dining room ahead. Other shapes formed out of the darkness. The writing desk. A corner of the sideboard.

A sudden sense of foreboding.