CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTAmbrose Decker
Ambrose expected her to scream, at least. He wanted questions, pleading, frantic hysteria. That sort of thing flavored the game, and he liked it. Instead, she whirled, moving with the speed and ease of an athlete, and caught up a shotgun leaning beside the farther door.
He had dismantled the .410 beside the front door, but he hadn’t counted on her having one at both front and back. She had it in her hands and was gone out the door and across the porch in one smooth motion.
Decker tore after her, flinging the screen wide and leaping down the tall steps before it could slap shut again. He landed with a grunt in the back yard, where it was now raining harder. She was a blur of motion in the short lane leading toward the barn and the woods beyond. He might
