Page 84 of Fatal Strike
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN DAYS,Leah unlocked her apartment door before the sun had gone down. She set a grilled chicken salad and her phone on the kitchen counter. The familiar sight of her clock collection in a corner antique curio cabinet gave her strange comfort as though time held the answers to her problems. What would Jon think of her steampunk decor—an old framed map of Europe combined with a Victorian sofa and lamps made from salvaged metal? Logic scolded her for allowing Jon to sink into her thoughts when her focus needed to be on the Venenos.
She had a call arranged later with the social worker from CPS. Confirmed updates for Will Jr. would help gather intel from his dad.
A whiff of her hot and ripe body sent her straight to thebedroom to unload her backpack and step into the shower. Family pics downloaded from Facebook and lined up on her dresser made her feel not so alone. The smiling faces created a sense of belonging. She inhaled the freshness of potpourri, scents of vanilla, mint, and lime. Home.
She lingered in the shower to let the warm water cleanse and massage her. When the afternoon’s dirt and grime flowed down the shower drain, she dried off and slid into yoga pants and a T-shirt.
Since Tuesday, her world had moved from one crisis to another, and it wasn’t over yet. This evening she’d enjoy every moment alone. Her bed looked far too comfy. Later, after eating her salad, she’d crawl beneath the sheets, phone the social worker, and watch a Hallmark movie.
The doorbell rang.
Leah groaned. Dare she ignore it? She sighed. What if the visitor had a critical message? She trudged to the door. A quick peek through the security hole showed a deliveryman holding a long box.
Flowers? She opened the door.
“Leah Riesel?” When she nodded, the young man handed her the box. “These are for you.”
“Who sent them?”
“There’s a card, miss.”
She thanked him before closing the door and locking it behind her. No one had sent her flowers in years. She carried the box to the reclaimed-metal table in her dining area. It was heavier than she expected. Must have a vase included. A square envelope with her name in gold script looked incredibly formal and sweet. Maybe Dad had a change of heart and sent them? She flipped on the brass-and-leather chandelier.
She loosened the envelope and carefully lifted the flap to read the card.
Leah,
To my gorgeous partner. Looking forward to time alone with you.
Jon
A fishing lesson and two kisses prompted him to send these? They’d grown close as friends over the week and a definite attraction had drawn them together, but ... A hint of anger settled on her.
She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. If she’d had the foresight, she would have learned who sent the flowers before the deliveryman left and instructed him to give them—probably roses from the size of the box—to his significant other.
Jon Colbert was about to get a piece of her mind. They barely knew each other. No more relationship stuff until the bad guys wore cuffs—and maybe not even then. She snatched her phone from the kitchen counter.
But curiosity tugged at her. She wanted to see the flowers before calling him, at least be gracious while being firm. Laying the phone aside, she lifted the lid.
In a flash a snake’s head snapped up and fangs sank into the top of her left hand. Screaming, she jumped back. Fiery pain shot up her arm. A rattler crawled from the box and slithered across the table. Her worst fear lay a few feet from her. Her throat tightened. Heart hammered. Memories of the rattler pit flashed across her mind. She’d failed then, but this rattler had bitten her.
Her first instinct was to get her gun, but firing it had the potential to pierce the floor or wall, and an older couple lived next door.
A knife.
She flung open a kitchen utility drawer. Blinding agony in her hand stole her breath. Gulping for air, she snatched a chef’s knife with her right hand. Panic seized control.
The rattler wriggled across the table, down a chair, and onto the floor toward her.
God, if You’re real, I need help.
The rattler slithered across the hardwood floor onto the tiled kitchen three feet from her. Like yesterday.
She must recover from the paralysis of watching the rattler move closer, or it would strike her again. Leah clutched the knife. She raised it above her head and down, slicing its head off.
She kicked the open-fanged mouth across the room. With a flood of anger, fear, and pain, she cut the rest of the snake into pieces. All the years of snake phobia unleashed. Her breath came in spurts. Releasing the knife, she tapped 911 into her phone.
“I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake,” she said between shoots of pain. After reciting her address, she fought nausea and stumbled to unlock the door in case she fainted.
