People did that all the time now, because her personal space had extended, in the past twenty-three months, to include whatever room she was in. She usually allowed people she knew into her personal space, but there were still those times when she could do nothing but withdraw from the world.

Since two attempts had been made on her own life after Travis was killed, she’d found herself suspecting practically everyone. She had known when she married Travis that he had one of the most dangerous jobs imaginable—not only was he a cop, but he was an undercover narcotics agent.
Here in Missouri, the Bible belt, the heart of the nation, a war raged against illegal drugs, particularly metham-phetamines. She had never dreamed the danger would extend to the cop’s family. But with Travis’s death, it most certainly had.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaled, tempting sleep with as much entreaty as she could muster, willing her body to relax. The art of relaxing had become a lost skill to her.

Since arriving here in the middle of March, she’d assured herself daily that the only things she had to fear in this place were her memories. If she died, it would be a side effect of the grief that had imprisoned her since the day she lost Travis.

There’s nothing out there. It’s your imagination. Again.,
Wasn’t that what everybody kept telling her? Even Preston. They hadn’t exactly told her they thought she was imagining the attempts on her life, but after the investigations turned up no evidence of foul play, she had felt her friends and her brother looking at her differently.

Try as she might, her eyes refused to remain closed. A faint flash of light greeted her again from the wall. She sighed and rolled from the bed, irritated by her exaggerated sense of responsibility. Maybe one of the renters was wandering around the yard with a flashlight, or maybe there was a party going on.

She slipped noiselessly to the glass door and unlatched it. All she needed was to prove to herself that no one hovered in the shadows watching her, waiting for her to go back to sleep so they could pounce.

And yet, what if someone was there this time?
She slid the door open and frowned. She caught a faint whiff of smoke, with an underlying scent of something else, pungent and strong.

What was it? Turpentine? Like the bottle of stuff Preston had been using in the shed a couple of days ago? No. Not turpentine…kerosene?

No.

Her frown deepened. Had Preston left the door open to the utility shed in the back? He’d spilled some gasoline on his clothes yesterday when he was working on the boat motor, preparing it for the coming warm days of spring.
She sniffed again. Smoke. Fuel.

She caught her breath. Smoke? “Preston!” she cried over her shoulder. “Fire!”