See No Evil
My home-decorating business was booming, thanks to that new account for model homes in a posh neighborhood. Of course, it didn't seem quite so posh when I came face-to-face with a man escaping the scene of his crime–a murder right next door to the house I was decorating. Now my life's on the line until the police find the murderer, and I'm guarded 24/7 by my panicky roommates and the overprotective owner of the housing development, Gray Edwards.As a believer, I know help truly comes from the Lord, but I sure wish He'd sent someone less handsome.
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“Gray!” I wasn’t even embarrassed about the panic in my voice.
“Yeah?” He said as he emerged from the basement.
“Bring your light over here. Shine it on my arm.”
He did so. “You scratched yourself.”
I shook my head. “That’s the drip.”
“But it’s—”
I nodded.
He swung his penlight, and the beam picked out a red puddle on the floor, drops plummeting from above to splash in the viscous pool. A footprint repeated across the floor, getting fainter and fainter with each step until it was almost nonexistent when it stopped at my left shoe.
He trained the beam overhead, and a woman’s pale hand appeared, flung out over the opening. Gray and I looked at each other in dismay, knowing that where there was a hand, there was a body attached.
GAYLE ROPER
has always loved stories, and as a result she’s authored forty books. Gayle has won the Romance Writers of America’s RITA>® Award for Best Inspirational Romance, repeatedly been a finalist for both the RITA>® Award and the Christy Award, won three Holt Medallions, the Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Inspirational Readers Choice Contest and a Lifetime Achievement Award as well as the Award of Excellence. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to the training of writers. Her articles have appeared in numerous periodicals, including Discipleship Journal and Moody Magazine, and she has contributed chapters and short stories to several anthologies. She enjoys speaking at writers’ conferences and women’s events, reading and eating out. She adores her kids and grandkids, and loves her own personal patron of the arts, her husband, Chuck.
Gayle Roper
See no Evil
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”
—Jeremiah 29:11–12
To Chuck,
my own personal patron of the arts, for all the years of your stalwart love and support
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
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
“Anna Volente, keep your mind on your work.”
How many times in the past had I heard those words from my dad or mom or one of my teachers? Even from Glenn, now that I thought about it, though I tried to think of him as little as possible. Of course I knew I should be concentrating on the project at hand, the hanging of the window treatment I held.
But how could I ignore the strange man skulking in the backyard of the unfinished house kitty-corner from the backyard of the completed model home I was working in?
He wasn’t one of the construction workers. I was certain of that. They had all gone home a couple of hours ago, lunchboxes and thermoses in hand, leaving me alone to finish my work in the warm, sultry August evening. The prowling man wasn’t dressed right for building anything either. He wore khakis and a red short-sleeved polo shirt hanging outside his slacks. I couldn’t tell from this distance if the dark mark he had over his heart was an alligator or a pony or a spot of dried gravy from his dinner.
I studied him. His clothes might be ordinary, but there was something not quite right about him, though I couldn’t decide what it was with the lowering sun shining so brightly in my eyes. I raised my hand to shield my eyes.
Was he just moving awkwardly, like someone who had a sprained ankle, or was he really skulking? Either way, as far as I knew, at this time of day no one should be anywhere near any of the houses in this very new, very upscale development. I excluded myself, of course.
From high on my ladder at the tall back window of the living room which ran the depth of the model house, I eyed the interloper. If I’d been hanging one of the front or side windows, I wouldn’t have seen him. If I’d been standing on the floor, I wouldn’t have seen him. The fence across the backyard and the plantings artistically fronting it, especially the weeping cherry, would have blocked him from view.
I frowned. Should I tell someone about him? Call someone?
Oh, Mr. or Ms. 911 Person, there’s a man walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedom’s Chase.
And what is this man doing?
Walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedom’s Chase.
That’s it? Call me back when he does something illegal, okay?
But isn’t trespassing illegal?
Then again, what if he was just looking around with the idea of buying a house here?
“How much longer will you be?”
The question, asked from behind me in a very male, rather abrupt voice, startled me, and I almost lost my precarious footing. I put a hand out and caught the upper sash to steady myself. With my sudden movement and less firm grip on the material, the heavy window treatment I held began to slip from my grasp. The slick silk flowed south with determination, a fabric Mississippi heading for the wooden Gulf of Mexico.
