She’d been sick with a cold for the first few days after moving in and finally felt well enough to unpack the boxes she’d shoved against the wall. Was that how he’d gotten in? Oh God, what if there was more than one person?
Another muffled thump made her heart leap.
“Ma’am, I have an officer en route. Is there a secure place you can go? Perhaps a place to conceal yourself?” the 911 operator asked. The woman’s voice was so professional. So calm.
Tennyson’s hands shook so hard she thought she might drop the phone. A place to hide? Something inside her told her to stay as quiet and still as possible, but perhaps hiding would be best. There was a closet to her left, but it had shelves. The couch sat flush against the wall, but her grandmother’s refurbished armchair might be big enough to crouch behind.
“Should I hide?” she whispered, keeping her eyes trained on the hallway just beyond the kitchen. Her Louis Vuitton bag sat agape on the marble counter. Surely the burglar would go for her wallet and the cash she’d taken out at the bank earlier that day. Unless he wasn’t after money.
What if . . .
“If there is a safer place for you, please go there. An officer should be there in two to three minutes.”
“Okay,” Tennyson said, easing off the couch and moving as silently as she could toward the chair that had been delivered from the upholstery shop three days before. She could still smell the fabric dye. Her body ran hot and cold, and the panting breaths she took sounded loud in her ears. Her galloping heart thumped so hard against her chest she was certain whoever had broken into her house could hear it.
“When the officer arrives, I need you to make sure he can access the property.”
“What?” she asked as she sank into a crouch behind the chair.
“You have to let him inside, ma’am.”
“Okay. Can you tell him to come around back? I mean, that’s where I am, and I’m afraid to walk to the front. It’s a big house, and I don’t know how to work all the locks and stuff yet.”
If the intruder came into the hearth room and saw her, she would grab the wine bottle and throw it at him and then bolt for the French doors that led out onto her patio. The dead bolt was probably turned, so she would have to be fast. And she wasn’t very fast. She’d always been picked last in gym class . . . even if her toe touch was to die for. Or, well, it used to be before she got freaking old.
She sat with the phone glued to her ear, reminding herself to breathe and stay calm. Finally, flashing lights glanced off the freshly painted wall.
Thank God.
She strained to hear any further noises from her room but heard nothing more.
A shadow fell across the floor, and she reared back only to realize it came from the French doors. The door made a sound as the officer tried the knob. It was locked.
Just as Tennyson was about to move to twist the bolt so the officer could get inside, the door exploded, smashing against the wall with a huge crash.
She screamed as a uniformed officer with a gun drawn moved into the room. He held the weapon out in front of him like they did in the movies. He had dark hair and wore a black belt with all kinds of equipment. He said, “Clear,” into a microphone on his chest.
He turned to look at her, a question in his blue eyes. Tennyson shouldn’t have noticed how hot he was, but she wasn’t dead yet, so she totally noticed.
She knew his questioning look meant he wanted to know where he should search. She pointed past the kitchen into the recesses that led to the bedroom, sitting room, office, and powder room.
He nodded and jerked his head toward the now open doorway.
She kept her hand on her mouth and moved behind him into the dark yawn of the night. The officer moved past the gleaming counter where her purse sat and crouched behind the counter. His gun remained trained on the empty space. Tennyson clutched the doorframe above the splintered wood of the jamb, too afraid to let the police officer out of her sight.
“This is the Shreveport Police. I need you to come out with your hands completely visible,” the man commanded.