Death by Equine Annette Dashofy (black authors fiction txt) 📖

and businesses sliced bright streaks through the darkness on the quiet drive home. She didn’t dare risk a glance at Daniel’s solemn profile, afraid to catch a glimpse of the disappointment she knew would be there.

Daniel made the left turn into her lane and gunned the Corvette up the hill and around to the back of the house. The hospital was dark and the parking area empty.

He cut the ignition. Steeling herself, she turned toward him.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Here we are.”

She forced a smile back at him.

He opened his door. Not waiting for him to come around to her side, she climbed out and met him at the front of the car. He slipped an arm around her waist. If she hadn’t let Greg ruin the evening, she imagined she’d have enjoyed the closeness as he walked with her down the path to the back door.

“I had a good time tonight.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

“Did you?” His voice was edged with sadness.

“Yeah, I did. Thank you.”

He placed a hand high on the doorframe, leaned into it, and studied her face. “I hope so. I thought you deserved a nice evening. I’m not sure I showed you one.”

“It was great. I’m just...not accustomed to places like that.” She stared at her toes peeping out of her old shoes.

He leaned closer to her. “That’s a shame. You belong in places like that. They suit you.”

Warmth tingled her cheeks and told her she must be glowing in the dark.

Daniel’s face moved closer, and she lifted hers. His lips caressed the corner of her mouth as soft as a whisper. “Good night.” He turned and headed back to the Corvette.

She watched his back as he went, the broad shoulders and the narrow hips in the exquisite black suit. He disappeared into the car’s interior, and the sound of the revving engine floated down to her.

Jessie fumbled in her purse for her keys. Damn it. Dinner at Lorenzo’s with just about the nicest, most attractive guy she’d ever met and she’d blown it.

Her fingers touched metal, but it was her nail file. Then she found the jumble of keys and pulled them out, locating the one for the house. As she brought it up to the lock, the door drifted open.

Thirteen

Had Jessie left the door open? No. She remembered checking to make sure it’d caught. She remembered locking it. She closed her fingers around the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand. The clammy sweat from the night’s humidity turned cold.

She wheeled in time to see the Corvette’s taillights disappear at the end of her lane. Daniel wasn’t coming to her rescue.

She dug in her purse for her phone but found nothing. With a groan, she realized she’d been so distraught when they left the restaurant, she’d neglected to check her phone and subsequently never reclaimed it from the glovebox.

She muttered a few choice words, turned back toward the house, and stepped inside.

Jessie didn’t think something was wrong. She knew it. The air conditioner rumbled, but the air inside the house felt as sultry as outside. A sensible person would get out. Call the police.

But the cats. She couldn’t abandon Molly and the kitten.

Jessie flicked on the kitchen light and turned the corner. The illumination cut a swatch into the dining room, falling across the pet carrier, its door wide open, the interior empty. What the hell? She reached around the doorframe to hit the next switch.

The antique brass chandelier lit the dining room where the sideboard and buffet doors and drawers hung open, their contents strewn across the floor. Tablecloths, silverware, packages of paper plates and napkins had been scattered. Her stoneware plates and bowls smashed.

She spotted her cordless landline phone resting on the fireplace mantel and crossed to it. But when she punched 911 and hit send, only dead air hissed in her ear. She swore and winged it onto her upholstered reading chair.

If she had any sense, she’d run. Jog up the hill to the hospital and call for help from there.

Her gaze returned to the empty pet carrier, followed the light that feathered into the living room, and stuck on the reason the house felt so oppressive. The front window had been shattered. A small cedar table from the front porch lay in the center of the room among the shards of glass and wood.

Molly.

Where was the kitten? Where was Molly? Had the intruder harmed her cats? The idea was more hideous than Jessie could handle. No way could she leave without finding them.

“Molly,” she cried out and immediately chastised herself. The old cat was deaf. But Jessie didn’t know what else to do. “Molly!” she called again.

Except for the sound of the forced air battling to cool the house, only silence responded.

The know-how she’d gained from being married to a cop went out the window with the cool air. Unsteady in her high heels, she half ran, half stumbled into the living room and slammed on the light switch with no concern for fingerprints.

The entertainment center, disguised as an armoire, was open. The TV had been toppled onto the imitation Oriental carpet, its screen shattered. The DVD player and stereo system also lay in fragments. The shelf containing her DVDs and CDs had been stripped bare.

The lace curtains framing the broken window fluttered in the night breeze. Had Molly escaped? She hadn’t been outdoors in years. A coyote or other wild animal could grab her. At the very least, the poor old dear would be terrified.

“Molly!”

Jessie teetered through the house, from room to room, flipping on lights as she went. She had yet to renovate the remainder of the empty downstairs rooms, leaving nothing to trash and nowhere for a cat to hide. She started up the steps. Her heart pounded harder than if she were running a marathon.

Halfway to the top, the acrid smell of smoke touched her nostrils. She took the rest of the stairs two at a