Behind Closed Doors. Tara Quinn Taylor
he wanted the bastards who’d invaded his home to be caught.
And punished.
He needed them to pay for what they’d done.
And to know they wouldn’t be back. Not to his home—and not to the homes of any other innocent, unsuspecting couple.
5
“W e found a size eleven shoe print in the dust at the back of your yard.”
The detective had taken a seat on her favorite couch. Laura faced him, sitting in the relatively isolated armchair across from it.
“What kind of shoe?” Harry’s question bothered her, although she appreciated his physical nearness. He’d settled on the arm of her chair, his arm lying on the back, just above her head.
Why did he have to care what kind of shoe one of those jerks wore? Laura wanted as little information as possible about the men who’d broken into their home—into their lives. The less she had, the less she’d have to picture…
“There wasn’t enough of an imprint to be sure, but the tread was thick. Probably a work shoe or boot.” His eyes narrowed, Detective Boyd looked at Harry. “You’re sure you didn’t see what they had on their feet?”
Laura was getting used to the way her mind blocked out incoming stimuli at will. Harry would’ve seen their feet. Because they’d have been attached to the legs that were on their bed in front of him…
“I didn’t.” Harry’s frustration was evident in his reply. “They were black, I’m positive of that. Soles and all. But whether they were shoes or boots, I couldn’t tell you.”
“What about the toes? Were they rounded? Did they seem steel-encased?”
“I don’t remember seeing them.”
They would’ve been upside down, making the toes nearly impossible to see. Laura chose to let the two of them figure that out on their own.
The detective’s gaze was kind as he directed his next questions to her. “Did you feel any footwear?”
“No.”
“You don’t remember any sensation of rubber or hard leather against your skin, maybe brushing against your ankle?”
“No.”
A lot of questions about shoes. Until this moment, she hadn’t given them a thought. Shoes didn’t seem to have much to do with the crime that had been committed here.
“Did they learn anything from the samples they took at the hospital?” That was what she wanted to know. Did they have the guys’ identities yet? Not what shoes they were wearing.
“Nothing conclusive. The fibers we got from under Harry’s nails were standard denim—used by most clothing manufacturers in the United States and beyond. There was no semen on the bedding. We did pull off several hair follicles and will check every one of them.”
“Probably mine and Harry’s,” she said, closing her mind to the thought of the attackers’ hairs mingling with hers and Harry’s in their bed.
There was much to run from here. And yet, since speaking with Kaleb and Alicia, she felt more there. More like herself. Or at least like someone she recognized. They’d treated her as they always did—like a beloved daughter—assuring her that they were a family and would get through this together. Would go on together. And laugh together again.
As impossible as that was to grasp, she believed them. Harry’s parents had a way of finding the best smelling roses in the middle of a thorn patch.
“The most conclusive piece of evidence we have so far is point of entry,” Detective Boyd was saying.
“They didn’t use the sliding glass door?” Harry asked, sounding confused.
Boyd nodded. “But they used a tool that, while common in the window-installation world, isn’t something most guys carry around in their trunks. From the marks on the window, it appears that two four and three-quarter inch double suction cups were used to pull the glass up and the door off the tracks.”
Made sense. What goes up must come down. What goes in also comes out. The door that’s installed can be uninstalled.
They were going to have to call a construction company on Monday morning and have the thing replaced. With a heavy wood door that had triple dead bolts. Their wrought iron idea wasn’t good enough.
Harry had already taken care of the windows, but maybe they could get an extra set of locks on each one. Just in case.
Because even if they managed to catch these guys, they weren’t the only rapists in the world. There were more of them out there. In Tucson and anyplace else she might decide to move. Rapists were a part of life.
There was no escaping them.
Tony Littleton had been home for twenty-four hours before Bobby Donahue had a chance to spend any private time with him. They’d attended a political rally for senatorial candidate George Moss the night before—Tony’s college class assignment—and then Tony had spent the morning with Luke so Bobby could work uninterrupted. The toddler was finally down for his Saturday-afternoon nap and everyone who’d had business with Bobby was gone as well. Bobby and Tony had dinner plans—a small group of like-minded people getting together—but for now it was just the two of them in the living room of the modest house Bobby owned outside Flagstaff.
Bobby could hardly wait to hear about Tony’s week.
“So…tell me what’s going on.” he said, hands dangling between his knees as he sat on the edge of the couch, facing Tony.
Tony’s blush gave him away.
“So it worked?” Bobby asked with a grin. “The advice I gave you?”
Tony met his eyes briefly, then looked down, but his smile was unmistakable. Bobby had never been as innocent as this young man, but he could still recognize the signs.
“I called you Thursday night,” Bobby said, helping his young friend.
Tony’s blush deepened.
“You were with her, weren’t you?”
Tony nodded. Suddenly, he started rambling in a way Bobby would never have done—but found endearing, just the same.
“You have to see this girl, Bobby,” he said. “When I look at her all I can think about is kissing her. Touching her. Her skin’s so white—like she’s never been out in the sun. And her smile…”
“You were good to her?” The statement was also a question. Sometimes good men, especially young ones in the throes of about-to-be consummated sexual desire, forgot themselves.
“Of course!” Tony said, meeting his eyes. “She wanted it worse than I did. She really liked it. She made these noises and squirmed so much I could hardly hold out long enough to pleasure her. It’s like you told me, come together or not at all, and I was determined to do that, but man, it was hard. The night was incredible. It’s all I’ve been able to think about…”
Bobby considered deferring his next comment—hated to put any kind of a damper on the young man’s joy—but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. “That has to stop.”
“What?” Tony’s brow furrowed.
“Obsessing over anything other than our service to God and our cause. Practice the mind exercises I taught you last summer. Put your thoughts on things outside yourself. A man who obsesses over sex goes down a dark and dangerous path.”
“There was nothing dark or dangerous about this, Bobby, I swear. She’s so sweet and giving and eager. We made each other…happy, you know? Like it felt totally right.”
“And that’s as it should be,” Bobby said, grinning again. “God gave you the ability to experience those