Lines of Defense

Ch. 7

AMELIA HART

I unlock the door and step inside, shivering from the rain that's seeped into every layer of my clothes. Droplets pool on the hardwood floor as I rush toward the bathroom, eager to strip out of the wet fabric. But the faint sound of a door shutting stops me cold.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. That sound hadn't come from me.

Gripping the baseball bat behind my door, I hold it up, feeling the cold, reassuring metal in my hands. I inch forward, every nerve on edge, listening for the next sound. Footsteps. Confident, steady, and coming closer. My pulse spikes, pounding in my ears.

Whoever's out there isn't in a rush, which means they're not afraid of me. I suck in a deep breath, ready to swing. A prosecutor makes a lot of enemies, and some of them don't leave their grudges behind in the courtroom.

The door creaks open, inch by inch.

"Amelia?"

The bat lowers as I release a shaky breath. I know that voice.

"Jane?" I say, feeling stupid for the way my heart had nearly jumped out of my chest.

The door swings open, and there she is, standing with her hands raised, eyes wide.

"You scared the hell out of me!" she exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest.

I scoff, leaning the bat against the wall. "I'm the one who's supposed to be scared. Didn't think anyone would be here. Weren't you spending the night at your fiancé's?"

She makes a face, dropping her bag on the couch. "Change of plans. We had a fight."

I nod, unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor before heading toward the bathroom. Jane's eyes follow me, lingering on my chest with a playful smirk.

"You know I play for both teams, right?" she teases, her voice dripping with suggestion. "If you don't find a boyfriend soon, I'm sure we could work something out."

I roll my eyes, laughing as I shoo her out of the room. "Get out before I have to beat you with this bat for real."

She snickers, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "Can't blame a girl for trying."

I shake my head as I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the day. But even as the steam fogs up the mirror, my mind drifts back to the crime scene at Stacie Freeman's villa.

Who was that man dressed in black? What reason could he have had to kill her?

The questions tumble through my mind, unsolved riddles that gnaw at me no matter how hard I try to push them aside. We caught a glimpse of him on the CCTV, but it was a dead end. No face, no identifying features, nothing to lead us to him.

And yet, something about it keeps tugging at me, like we've missed a crucial piece of the puzzle.

After my shower, I pull on a pair of comfy lounge pants and a soft t-shirt, padding back out to the living room. Jane's already cleaning up the mess I'd made when I first stormed in, towels in hand as she mops up the trail of rainwater.

I enter the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. "Any food in here?" I ask.

She tosses a towel onto the counter, looking up with a grin. "Leftover pizza in the fridge. If you're into cold slices."

"Works for me," I mutter, grabbing the box and leaning against the counter as I take a bite. My eyes flicker back to Jane, who's watching me carefully.

"Thinking about Stacie's case?" she asks, though she already knows the answer.