I froze in place. No way had I left it open, and no way had it come unlatched.
Creeping closer to the door, I noticed odd, gliding tracks in the snow parallel to my own, as though someone had disguised his boot tread pattern by skimming over his footsteps.
I yanked my phone from my pocket and called the station.
CHAPTER 15
Underhill commanded me to get out of my yard and back to my car, pronto. Turner would be there in four minutes.
I pivoted and hurried to the gate, walking back over my own tracks, and stopped there, searching my windows for signs of an intruder. I don’t know what I expected to see. A figure in the window? A twitching curtain? Something told me the break-in perp had long gone.
Instead of hiding in my car, I trudged through the snow to the front of my house to wait for Turner. True to Underhill’s word, four minutes later a squad car came churning up Finch Hill Road, tires slipping on the poorly plowed street.
Turner hopped out and strode to where I stood.
“Are you okay, Rachel? Did you see anyone?”
“I didn’t see anyone around the house, and I never went in.”
“Good, because the chief would be ticked if you had.”
“I’m ticked, Travis. Someone broke into my house through my back door, and this isn’t the first time this has happened.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I’m pretty sure whoever broke in has gone.”
“Is your front door open?”
“I think it’s still locked.” I handed him my keys.
“Wait here until I give the okay.”
Turner mounted the steps and turned the key, pushed the front door wide, shouted a warning, and entered. Seconds later Gilroy’s SUV roared to a stop alongside Turner’s squad car.
“Turner just went in,” I said the instant he left his car.
“Are you all right?”
I assured him I was fine. All the same, I wanted to grab him and hold him and have him hold me, but with Officer Turner nearby, I resisted the urge.
“I never went inside,” I said. “I think someone forced their way in through the back door. They may have damaged the lock or frame because the door was still open.”
Gilroy announced himself to Turner and strode through our open front door. And I resisted a new urge: to follow him inside. I needed to see what had been done to our home, our sanctuary. I needed to find out what had been taken or damaged.
It wasn’t long before Gilroy was standing on the front porch and waving me up the steps.
“How bad is it?” I asked, expecting to hear the worst.
He looked relieved but puzzled. “Nothing’s missing, and I haven’t found any damage, except to the back door. Looks like a crowbar or something similar was used.”
I entered the living room, my eyes swiftly taking it all in. The walls—no graffiti. The furniture—no damage. The area rug—what looked like damp spots but no stains. The bookcase—not a book spine out of place.
“If you follow the water puddles, it looks like the intruder looked around the kitchen then walked to the living room and stood on the area rug.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Whoever broke in left before I got here, so I didn’t interrupt anyone. They didn’t break in for the fun of it, they were here for a reason. The upstairs?”
“Looks fine to me, but take a look in case I missed something.”
Turner was in the upstairs bathroom, taking a peep inside the vanity. Satisfied, he straightened and shut the cabinet door. “Sorry about this, Rachel. The only thing worse than having a stranger break into your home is having the police comb through everything afterwards.”
“No, I’m glad you’re here, Travis. But do me a favor. When you find out who did this, don’t tell my husband, tell me. I want to strangle him before he can be arrested.”
“Will do,” he said cheerfully.
I went on to my bedroom and spare bedroom. I wasn’t a fan of knickknacks and geegaws, so memory and glances here and there were sufficient to tell me that unless the intruder had taken something small and squirreled away inside a bureau drawer, he hadn’t taken anything. Still, I took extra care in going over the bedroom, bedroom closet, and chest of drawers.
Next I surveyed my office, going first to my desk, where I kept several hundred dollars in twenties in an envelope in the top drawer. The envelope and cash were still there.
“Your kitchen’s okay,” Turner said, hovering outside the office door. “Your Keurig’s okay, too.”
“Imagine breaking and entering to steal a Keurig.”
“Stranger things have happened. That envelope?”
“Cash.”
“Still there?”
“Yeah. It’s easy to find and wasn’t touched. How weird is that?”
“What was he after?”
“Good question,” I replied, stuffing the envelope back in the drawer. “Maybe he wants us to know he can break in.”
“Or she. I know a woman who can wield a mean crowbar.”
“Your wife?”
“Precisely.”
Turner grinned and headed down the stairs, and I took a final mental inventory as I roamed the upstairs rooms.
Nothing. Zip.
Downstairs I surveyed the kitchen—pots, pans, cups, and plates, taking extra time to scrutinize the food in our fridge—as Gilroy made a cup of coffee with our precious Keurig.
