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A Silent Terror
Lynette Eason
When Marianna Santino's roommate is killed, Detective Ethan O'Hara can't fathom the motive. Then he realizes the deaf teacher was the intended target. Marianna must have something the murderer desperately wants. But what? Digging for the truth, the guarded cop tries to learn everything he can about Marianna. Her world. Her family. Her beauty, faith and fierce independence.In spite of himself, Ethan finds that he can't keep his feelings at bay. Soon, he's willing to risk everything–including his heart–to lay the silent terror stalking Marianna to rest.
Was he searching for her?
Whatever he was doing, he was heading her way. Panting her fear, she clung desperately to control. Forcing herself to think, she tried to figure a way out. Visions of Suzanne lying on her bedroom floor caused a wave of nausea to rush through her.
Her world turned choppy, the survival instinct strong. Her eyes darted around the room.
Then she heard a thump. Vibrations. Marianna quickly moved toward the front door. It was locked.
Shaking hands fumbled with the dead bolt. Precious seconds ticked by as the key fell to the floor. The thumping stopped. She froze, her breath strangling her as she tried not to gasp.
Trembling, she bent down, snatched the key, jammed it in the lock and finally got the door open. She slipped out the opening, onto the porch, and felt hard hands grasp her upper arms….
LYNETTE EASON
grew up in Greenville, SC. Her home church, Northgate Baptist, had a tremendous influence on her during her early years. She credits Christian parents and dedicated Sunday School teachers for her acceptance of Christ at the tender age of eight. Even as a young girl, she knew she wanted her life to reflect the love of Jesus.
Lynette attended the University of South Carolina in Columbia, SC, then moved to Spartanburg, SC, to attend Converse College, where she obtained her master’s degree in education. During this time, she met the boy next door, Jack Eason—and married him. Jack is the executive director of the Sound of Light Ministries. Lynette and Jack have two precious children, Lauryn, eight years old, and Will, who is six. She and Jack are members of New Life Baptist Fellowship Church in Boiling Springs, SC, where Jack serves as the worship leader and Lynette teaches Sunday School to the four-and five-year-olds.
A Silent Terror
Lynette Eason
Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings, from the wicked who assail me, from my mortal enemies who surround me.
—Psalms 17:8–9
As always, to Jesus Christ. Let me be a good
steward of what you’ve given me.
Thanks go out to:
The wonderful crime scene writers group on Yahoo. It’s such a relief to know if I have a question, I can ask it and get an accurate answer in, sometimes, under a minute! You guys rock.
Emily Rodmell, editor extraordinaire.
I’m honored to work with you. Thank you so much for taking a chance on a newbie and for making all my books shine.
Thank you to my deaf friends who are always eager to share their ideas, culture and language.
Thank you, dear hubby, for all the time and effort you put in to getting my books out there and for being proud of me.
Thank you, Lauryn and Will, I love you so much.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ONE
Something was wrong. Goose bumps pimpled on Marianna Santino’s suddenly chilled flesh as she walked up her driveway. The door to her small home stood open. That in and of itself didn’t bother her. The open door combined with the facts that it was January and slightly below freezing didn’t bode well. And where was Twister, her large German shepherd, who normally bounded out to greet her?
Her internal fear alarm screeched. Adrenaline rushed.
Run. Get away.
She turned to run—and paused. But what about Suzanne?
Investigate or flee? What if Suzanne, her roommate, needed her? What if she was hurt?
What if whoever broke in was still in there?
Jamming her right hand into her coat pocket, she pulled out her Blackberry and punched in 911. When the screen lit, indicating the call was connected, she put the device to her ear to hear someone speaking. Unable to make out the words, she spoke softly into the phone. “Someone broke into my house.” She gave the address and clicked off to wait. No doubt the dispatcher was probably yelling at her about hanging up, but it wouldn’t do any good to stay on a phone with a person she couldn’t hear.
Marianna scanned the house again. Her hearing aids picked up nothing out of the ordinary, just the wind whipping all around her, causing a whooshing sound to rumble in her ears. Other than that, all was quiet. Silent. Like a tomb.
Was the person still in there? Did Suzanne need help? Again the questions swirled in her brain, worry agitating her. Please God, don’t let anything be wrong. Maybe the wind blew the door open.
But that didn’t explain Twister’s absence. And Suzanne, who always arrived home before Marianna, would have shut the door immediately.
Her eyes darted to the street. No police yet. Fear for her friend finally overrode her concern for her own safety. Slowly, she walked forward until she reached the front porch steps that led up to the door. The stain on the step stopped her.
Blood.
In the form of a shoe print. Leading out of the house.
She was beyond fear. Now she was terrified.
“Suzanne? Twister?”
Desperately, she strained for any sound that would penetrate the shroud of silence she lived with on a daily basis. With a shaking finger, she bumped up the volume on her hearing aid. Slowly, she stepped toward the door once more. The footprint led away from the house. That was good, right? Whoever had been there was now gone.
Or watching.
Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the quiet street. After school normally meant children on bicycles and neighbors walking dogs. But the frigid weather had everyone inside. The street was deserted. Suddenly, the windows seemed ominous, staring back at her like empty eyes.
Where were the police?
Shivering, she stepped closer, avoided the bloody print and slipped inside the door. Looked down. Another print. A blast of warm air from the vent above her blew a lock of raven-colored hair across her eyes. Pushing it aside, she swallowed hard and made a concerted effort to control her fear-induced ragged breathing.
She continued on.
The kitchen to her right. Peered in. Nothing but an empty mug on the counter.
The den to her left. Again, nothing seemed out of place.
That left the three bedrooms down the hall. And the trail of bloody footprints leading to the room at the end.
With nerves taut, the hairs on her neck standing straight up, she took another deep breath and stepped into the hall, doing her best to avoid smudging the prints, which grew darker with each step.
Was she destroying evidence the police might need?
Hesitating, she chewed her lip. Her instincts screamed at her to get out. To leave.
But Suzanne might be hurt. What if she needed immediate medical help?
Those thoughts kept her going, ignoring the raging fear flowing with every heartbeat.
“Suzanne?”
A noise, caught by her hearing aid, pulled her to the left as did the prints. Suzanne’s bedroom. The door was shut.
Reaching out, she almost touched the knob. Stopped. Every crime show she’d ever watched seemed to replay through her mind in a five-second span. She caught the edge of her shirt, gripped it with her thumb and pointer finger, and twisted the knob to open the door. No sense in marring any fingerprints that might be there.
No, you’re just possibly wiping them off.
But Suzanne was her priority.
Another muffled sound. What was that? Run!
Please, God!
The knot in her throat grew tighter as the door swung inward. A bloody smudge marred the hardwood floor. And another one just behind it. The room lay trashed, items broken and strewn about.
Oh, please, Jesus, let the police get here soon.
“Suzanne? Twister?”
Another sound. From the closet. Slowly, she walked toward it. Using her shirt again, she grasped the knob and turned it.
The door exploded open, pushing her backward to land on her rear. She let out a little scream, then groaned.
Twister. Licking her face, he expressed gratitude for his freedom.
“Get off. Down,” she ordered.
Immediately, he dropped to his haunches, ears perked, brown eyes gleaming. Cocking his head, he whined, seemed restless, his attention on something beyond her bed.
She whirled, rounded the bed and stopped.
“No!” she screamed and dropped to her knees.
Suzanne lay faceup, eyes fixated, unseeing, on the ceiling above her. Beneath her dark hair, a pool of blood soaked into the light brown carpet.
As Ethan O’Hara approached the house, the scream reverberated from within. The wide-open door and the brown bloody footprint on the front porch told him that the 911 hang up call signified real trouble. Definitely not a prank. Catelyn, his partner, pulled her gun and gave him the nod; he entered the house, his own weapon held ready in his right hand. They’d been passing by the neighborhood when the scanner went off. When Catelyn heard the address, she gasped, “That’s Marianna’s house, I think.”
“You know her?”
“I’m better friends with her sister, Alissa, but I’ve met Marianna a couple of times.”
Instead of waiting for a unit from the county, he and Catelyn had simply made a right turn into the subdivision, calling in that they would handle it.
She followed behind him, covering his back. Silently, senses on high alert, he tracked the prints.
Again he heard, “No!” coming from the back bedroom on his left.
Not wanting to call out and possibly alert the perpetrator who could still be around, he controlled his breathing, felt the familiar rush of adrenaline he always had going into a potentially dangerous situation and stepped into the bedroom.
The bed sat centered on the opposite wall. Sobs came from the right of it. He took in the debris-littered room. Someone had put up a violent fight. Catelyn came up behind him indicating the rest of the house was clean.
