Don't Go Home by Carolyn Hart Page A

emphasizing the late hour. She heard voices before she reached the east wing.
    As she came around the corner, she saw beams from Maglites dancing in the forest west of the inn. There were sounds of movement, twigs breaking, men calling to each other.
    Several dark figures clustered near the first patio.
    Rae Griffith stood by an overturned patio chair. Her dark hair was tousled, her pale blue cotton nightgown pulled low on one shoulder. At some point in whatever had occurred, she’d pulled on running shoes and they were an odd contrast to the delicate nightgown.
    Officer Harrison, as crisp as always, was listening, her face intent.
    â€œ. . . never saw him,” Rae was saying. Her voice was strained.
    â€œHim?” Hyla asked.
    In the grass a few feet from the patio, a college-age girl in a white peasant blouse and blue denim skirt watched anxiously. Her name tag read: Night Clerk Judith Reilly. At a shout from the woods, she looked even more scared, edged closer to Hyla.
    Rae massaged the bare shoulder, grimaced. “It could have been a woman. Everything happened so fast.”
    Running steps sounded. Marian Kenyon skidded to a stop by Annie, notebook in one hand, Leica in the other. “Scanner,” she explained to Annie before turning to Hyla Harrison. “You caught anybody?” Marian was middle-of-the-night frowsy in a too-large orange T-shirt and faded jeans and worn huaraches.
    Hyla jerked a thumb toward the woods. “Search under way,” she answered, but her eyes never moved from Rae’s pale face. “You were in the bedroom”—a slight upward inflection—“here?”
    Rae brushed back tangled hair, looked defiant. “I know what you’re thinking.” Her voice was ragged. “You think I should have moved. Alex’s sister asked me. The hotel offered another room.” Her lips quivered. “His things are here.”
    Annie pressed her nails into her palms. The room was all Rae had now of Alex.
His things are here . . .
Annie understood. Even with the memory of that twisted body, utterly still and limp in death, Rae wanted to be where she felt nearest to him.
    Hyla continued to watch Rae, her face impassive, then pressed on. “You were in the bedroom.”
    Rae blinked and her face furrowed in concentration. “I’d taken a sleeping pill. If I sound groggy, that’s why.” Her voice was dull, dragging. “I heard noise, something out in the sitting room. I wasn’t thinking. At first I thought Alex was up—and then I remembered. I got up but I was dizzy. I hung on to the headboard for a minute. Therewere thumps, little noises. I knew something was wrong, somebody out there who shouldn’t be. I wasn’t thinking straight or I would have stayed where I was—the bedroom door was locked—and called the police. But I was mad and upset. I started across the room, kind of stumbling. I got to the door and pulled it open. I saw a shaft of light and all of a sudden the light was in my eyes. I couldn’t see anything. I screamed. But I don’t think I made much noise. Somebody rushed at me and I saw the light swing up and I knew I was going to be hit. I tried to get out of the way and the flashlight slammed down onto my shoulder and I fell. By the time I got up, it was dark in the sitting room. The only light came from the lantern on the patio. I saw that light and the curtain blowing and knew the patio door was open. I turned on all the lights and called 911.”
    The sounds of the search were distant now. There were no warning shouts, no harsh orders to raise hands and remain still. Annie knew no one had been spotted. By now the intruder was likely long gone.
    Hyla was brisk. “Did your assailant’s footsteps sound loud?”
    Rae stared at the slender officer. “Loud?”
    â€œThe level of noise might indicate whether your assailant was a man or woman. Loud steps, a man.