Caught Looking Read online

  Caught Looking

  Jody Holford

  Contents

  More from Penner Publishing

  Also by Jody Holford

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Wind-up

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About Penner Publishing

  This edition published by

  Penner Publishing

  Post Office Box 57914

  Los Angeles, California 91413

  www.pennerpublishing.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Jody Holford

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. This book is licensed for your personal use only.

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  ISBN: 978-1-944179-41-0

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  “In baseball, as in life, all the important things happen at home.”

  unknown

  Chapter 1

  There was a fine line between having character and just being ugly. Frankie Vaughn knew which side of the line her newly inherited shack was on, but bubbles of excitement rose in her chest anyway. The metal teeth of the key dug into her skin, assuring her that she was really doing this. Her father had handed it over reluctantly when she’d told him she wanted the house and the adventure. She wanted it, but she wasn’t ready to go in yet.

  The breeze whipped the scent of freshly mown grass past her face. Clearly not from her lawn, as some of its weeds were up to her knees, she was pretty sure there were more weeds than actual blades of grass. That shouldn’t have made her smile. A normal person wouldn’t smile. They’d turn and run. Two beautiful houses towered over hers. The one on the left was a two-story brick front with a perfectly manicured yard. The one on the right side was a modern take on a country classic. With its wide, wraparound porch and second-floor window shutters, it looked like it belonged on a page of a magazine. As did the man stepping off the porch and coming toward where she leaned on her car. A spark of awareness, an appreciation for his long, lean shape, flickered inside her belly.

  He had a lazy stroll, which gave her time to get a good look. Dark hair escaped the sides of his baseball cap, which shadowed his eyes. His hands were hooked in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. His navy Henley stretched across his wide chest and shoulders. With his sleeves pulled up his forearms, she saw the hint of a tattoo on one arm. He was standing next to her by the time she made it up to his eyes, which were dark and broody. They roamed over her, making her itch to smooth herself out, but there was no point. She couldn’t hide the last two days she’d spent in a car. His lips almost smiled when his gaze wandered up to meet her stare.

  “You the new owner?”

  “I am.” She pushed off the car and stretched out her hand. “Frankie.”

  He looked down at her hand as if he wasn’t sure where it’d come from, before he shook it. Firm, like she imagined his lips would be, and large like him. It was warm when it closed around hers and butterflies awoke lazily in her chest. She pulled back her hand before he said his name. She wasn’t looking for that kind of adventure.

  “Ryan.”

  “Your house is gorgeous,” she said, gesturing with her chin. He looked over his shoulder, shrugged, and then looked at Frankie’s.

  “Yours should be condemned.”

  His bluntness surprised a laugh out of her. What did he care? He didn’t even have to live in it. Just next to it. And her. He ran his hand over the hint of stubble covering his square jaw. The low, rasping sound sent a shot of heat to her stomach. She noted the scar above his left eyebrow and the one along his chin. His looked down at the sidewalk when he spoke again.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.” He shoved his hands back into his pockets. Frankie would bet a hot fudge sundae he’d meant exactly what he’d said.

  She glanced down at the ground to cover a yawn and ran her foot along a crack in the cement. Looking up at Ryan through lowered lids, she told him, “It probably looks worse on the outside than it does inside.”

  “I wouldn’t put money on that.” His dark eyes were serious, as though he held heavy secrets. She took a step toward him, inhaling the mingling scents of fresh air and cologne. Both made goose bumps tickle her arms. He gestured with his thumb toward the house. “Seriously though, I’m not even sure it’s safe to live in.”

  Frankie’s eyes widened. Whether he was concerned for her well-being or just overly opinionated, he obviously wasn’t worried about making a good first impression.

  “It’ll be fine. My father told me they’d started updating the area in the last several years, but this seems more like a community overhaul,” Frankie said.

  “It’s called gentrification,” he said.

  She huffed out a breath and put her hands on her hips. “I know what it’s called. I was trying to be polite by making conversation.”

  Her irritation didn’t slow him down. As if making his point was exhausting, he sighed heavily then pointed toward her house. “Polite would be bulldozing this.”

  She looked back at his house, at the Range Rover sitting in his driveway. Yes, she supposed someone who drove a vehicle worth more than her yearly salary would consider it “polite” to bring the house up to community standards. But Frankie was done pleasing others, and she was done with this negative conversation.

  She pasted on one of the smiles she used for her mother’s dinner parties. “I’ll be starting with the inside of the house. You know, one room at a time. Besides, the weather will be getting cold soon, so it’s best to wait until summer to really get going on the rest,” she said, her lips aching from holding a smile in place. His gaze was cool, and it pissed her off that the rest of him was hot. She wondered what he did for work, but wasn’t inclined to ask. Something that paid well enoug
h to drive a sweet vehicle. Though, Frankie knew firsthand that how something looked on the outside didn’t necessarily represent the truth.

  “It’s still warm enough to paint,” he said, leaning against her car now. Jesus. What was his deal?

  “You offering?” She narrowed her eyes at him when he gave a bark of laughter.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. It changed his face from good-looking to flutter-inducing. The smile he was giving her was different from the half-smirk he’d shared so far. “Hardly. Just saying.”

  “Uh-huh. Well. Thanks. I should be getting in. You might want to keep your blinds shut until I can get around to painting.”

  His lips quirked, his eyes flashing with amusement, and he nodded. He took another second to hold her gaze. With a softness she didn’t expect, he replied, “I’ll do that. Welcome to the neighborhood, Frankie.”

  She said nothing in response. He wandered back toward his house as slowly as he’d come over. He stopped at the old-style mailbox at the end of his drive and pulled it open. It took her a few seconds to avert her eyes from the view of him walking away. She hoped her other neighbors were friendlier.

  Her smile dimmed when she looked back at the house. It wasn’t pretty, but she already had ideas bouncing around about how to reveal some of its well-buried character. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed Ryan out of her mind. The trees separating her yard from Ryan’s swayed, waving to her as the sun sank lower into the mouth of the Minnesota Mountains. It was all hers, and it was time. After picking up her duffel bag, she stepped carefully down the broken concrete path. This definitely counted as an adventure. She just wasn’t sure which sort.

  “Can’t finish what you don’t start,” she whispered, cringing at her own words. Some people got upset stomachs when they were excited or nervous. That was too conventional for Frankie; instead, she vomited clichés. The key slid into the lock with no resistance but when she turned the handle and pushed, the door didn’t budge.

  “Nothing worth having comes easy.”

  She threw her hip against the door and nearly fell to the floor when it swung open. Righting herself and tossing off her purse and duffel, she rubbed her hand over her jeans. She turned in a slow circle, the smell of stale air mixing with the dust.

  She laughed out loud. “Welcome back, 1970.”

  Nothing had changed. The primary color in the room was green. But not a rich, pretty green. Nope. It was a washed-out-inside-of-a-lima-bean shade that did not complement the baby-blue shag rug. Light filtered through the dirt-covered windows, casting mini spotlights on the rug. There was also a fine line between vintage and beyond tacky. Almost everything would have to go.

  “Home sweet...stop it. You’re a writer for crap’s sake. Be original.” She shut the door and leaned against the solid wood. Her phone buzzed in her pocket but she ignored it.

  “Not now, mom. You do not want to see this.”

  From the door, she eyed the pieces of furniture bequeathed to her family with the house. She wished her Aunt Beth’s will had mentioned a local junk hauler. As her phone continued to buzz, she deeply regretted showing her mother how to FaceTime. Walking slowly, afraid to disturb the dust or the horrors lurking beneath the grime, she looked though the arched doorway, which led to the kitchen.

  On the plus side, it wasn’t green. On the holy-heck-what-have-I-done side, the walls matched the shag carpet of the living room. Breathing through her nose and wondering what the line between adventure and crazy was, she surveyed the dated appliances and hoped they worked. They might have been the same ones she’d used when Frankie and her brother had come to visit fifteen years ago.

  Detouring slowly from the kitchen down the darkened hallway, she ran her hand along the wall to find the light switch. Her heart twisted hard and tight when the light revealed poorly framed family photographs. Running her fingers along the dusty frames, she bit her bottom lip. It was hard to breathe, but she smiled at the pictures of her brother and her as kids, her aunt and her dad and their parents outside a hunting lodge, and Aunt Beth in her wedding gown next to Uncle Albert, who Beth never got over losing. As the years progressed along the wall, the pictures began to feature a cat. An unnaturally large, orange cat.

  “Good lord, Garfield. I hope I didn’t inherit you.” Frankie looked around to see whether she might have passed the animal. Like she wouldn’t notice something that size. Leaning against the wall, she stared at the closed doors, two on each side of the hall. She wasn’t ready to open them yet.

  Her stomach growled, giving her the perfect excuse to put off the walk through. She ran to the car to grab the few groceries she’d brought and a couple of other necessities, like linens. After hefting the boxes inside, she dropped them all at the door and took the food to the kitchen. It really was a work of art—like a photograph of the seventies. A perfectly square room with actual Formica counters. There was a lovely, if grimy, window looking out on the jungle of greenery in the back. She squinted through the double-paned glass.

  “How am I supposed to mow that?” Another thing she’d need to purchase. She’d make a list. Saying a silent prayer to the overseer of ancient appliances, she opened the refrigerator door and frowned. Pulling out the carton of milk on the shelf, she checked the date on it.

  “Next week?” Okay. Weird. The yogurt had a similar expiration date. There were a few eggs and some no-name cheese slices. Frankie’s heart quickened. Why would there be fresh food in the fridge? Leaning against the counter, she took measured breaths. In. Out. Burglars wouldn’t stock the fridge.

  “Don’t borrow…” She broke off in a frustrated growl. Maybe Ryan had left a few staples in the fridge? Not likely, and the door had been locked. Her father had arranged to have the electricity turned back on. Aunt Beth had died just over a month ago, at the beginning of August, so it had been shut off temporarily.

  Continuing her deep breathing, she stored the few perishables she’d brought: milk, yogurt, juice, apples, a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, and two Hershey bars, and left the dry goods, just some peanut butter, bread, and crackers, in the bag. She tapped her fingers against the countertop. There must be lots of plausible explanations for why there would be food in the fridge. Dated after Beth’s death. She just wished she could think of one.

  She let out a heavy sigh then held her breath. Goosebumps prickled her skin as she strained to hear anything other than the normal creaks and groans of an old house. She hadn’t opened any of the doors. Had someone been staying here? Being a writer gave her a fairly active imagination, for which she was not grateful at this particular moment.

  “Okay. I’m being silly. I’ll just check out all the rooms.” She blinked, still unmoving, too tense to worry about talking to herself. “Or, I could go next door and ask the sexy neighbor to come over,” The sexy, grumpy neighbor who, she was certain, would not want to come inside for what was surely an unnecessary tour.

  She’d feel less nervous if she weren’t checking things out alone, but this was her house and she could take care of herself. Not that there’s anything to feel nervous about. Still, she knew she wouldn’t relax until she’d checked. In the living room, she looked around for something to use as a weapon, just in case. She’d had mace in her purse since her mother had put it in there when Frankie had gone with her best friend, Chloe, to an eighties party in Brooklyn. They’d stayed over at a friend’s in Bushwick and had the best time, which her mother found unbelievable. And she hadn’t even had to use the mace. Frankie tried to smile at the memory to relax as she pulled out her phone and padded toward the hall. At least the house had an open-concept layout and was small. The living room and kitchen were clear. She pictured yelling out, “Clear!” like in the cop shows.

  Opening the door to what would be her bedroom, she kept her back to the wall. She pressed the nine and one on her phone and her thumb hovered over the one. Just in case. Her knuckles went white around the mace as she peered into the closet. The room was a good size. A large window t
ook up one wall.

  “Clear,” she whispered.

  She whispered it again when she checked the bathroom. Her heart still pounded faster than it should. Maybe freaking herself out like this could count as a workout. The room beside the bathroom was smaller than the master but would make for a good office. She cringed at the strange, circular pattern on the orange carpet. The decorating was like a bad game of Would You Rather: Would you rather have blue shag carpet that looks like you skinned the Cookie Monster or orange-colored turf with dizzying geometric shapes?

  Frankie closed the door to the spare room and the memory of her long-ago visit. With one room left, Frankie wondered if she’d overreacted to a few food items in a fridge.

  This room was as nondescript as the others. Even the carpet was tame—just a mustard yellow with no design. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath captive until it whooshed out of her lungs.

  “All clear,” she said, about to press end on her phone when the closet door rattled as if someone kicked it from inside. The air crept back into her lungs like it planned to hide there until she needed it again.

  “Actually, Ryan, can you come on back here?” Frankie’s voice trembled through the bluff she yelled toward the hallway. When she heard a rustling sound from behind the bi-fold doors, her heart tried to jump out of her chest. The mustiness of the air tickled her throat as she stood stock-still. Another rustle. And all at once, she remembered the mammoth cat.

  “Oh no!” The thought of an animal stuck in a closet or even in the house after Beth’s death was horrifying. Frankie pocketed the mace and yanked open one of the doors. Then she stumbled backward, biting her tongue and swallowing the scream that tried to escape.

  Chapter 2

  The taste of blood filled Frankie’s mouth. Huddled in a corner of the closet were three boys, practically on top of each other. They varied in age, but shared the same eyes, dark skin, and dark hair. The littlest one looked like he might cry. The oldest looked like he might attack. And the middle one looked like he didn’t care what either of them did.