Got Your Number

his friends had confronted him about his drinking, his reaction had stunned her—ugly, vengeful, and defensive. I'll get you back, you self-righteous fake.
    Elise? Roxann had asked for the key when she moved out, but Elise could've had a spare. During their argument following Elise's shocking announcement, hadn't Elise used the word fake? You led me on with your fake friendship.
    Detective Capistrano? He hadn't bothered to hide his disdain for her and the program. Unless you're a fake. Maybe he was desperate enough to search her place for clues about Melissa Cape and make it look like a break-in.
    Or—she swallowed hard—was the past catching up with her? A dirty little secret that sometimes jolted her awake from a deep sleep to remind her that the venerable life she'd built had been the fruit of a poisonous tree. But no one knew about those circumstances except Angora, and it didn't seem likely she'd be terrorizing Roxann when she was on the verge of getting married. Besides, Angora had just as much to lose if the truth were revealed...maybe more.
    She shook away the useless train of thought, forcing herself to deal with the immediate situation: call the police and report the break-in. But halfway to the phone she stopped. And tell them what?
    That a man might be after her because she helped his ex-wife disappear, oh, and by the way, the woman is a material witness to a crime in which a cop was shot, but no, she can't reveal the woman's whereabouts.
    And did she mention that her former roommate might be out for revenge because she had rebuked the woman's advances?
    Or that her former lover had threatened to teach her a lesson for embarrassing him with an intervention?
    Plus she'd talked just this morning with one of their detectives who might have taken the law into his own hands to get the answers she wouldn't give him?
    The police would show up all right—with a net.
    She performed a cursory search to see if anything was missing, although it was hard to tell. Her scant costume jewelry had been rifled, but her broken pearls were safe in the glue-bound teacup she'd kept all these years. Her personal files were in disarray, but it was policy not to keep Rescue records at home—she even shredded names and phone numbers scribbled on scratch sheets of paper. The contents of her shredder had been strewn, which led her to believe that either the intruder hadn't been searching for anything in particular, or had simply given up. Somebody had wanted to scare her, to send her a message.
    A quick check of the windows showed no signs of forced entry, and the door hadn't been jimmied. Someone with a key, or a good lock-pick. She yanked out a duffel bag and stuffed in clothes as she found them, along with a few personal items. On the way to the back door, she noticed her land-line phone-message light was flashing—a rarity.
    Holding her breath, she pressed the button. Two hang-ups, then some heavy wheezing that sent a chill up her spine, then another hang-up. She erased the messages, then nearly lost the contents of her bladder when the phone rang. It took her three rings to find the cordless receiver. She hit the talk button, heart leaping in her chest. "Hello?"
    "Last chance—I'm thawing a rump roast."
    She closed her eyes and asked herself why she'd given the man her phone number. "Thanks, Mr. Nealy. Really." She winced at the rhyme. "But I'm going out of town for a few days."
    "Is something wrong, dear? You don't sound like yourself."
    "No, nothing's wrong. Mr. Nealy, you didn't happen to see anyone outside today, did you?"
    "No. Why?"
    "I've been expecting a package, that's all."
    "Oh. Shall I water your plants while you're gone?"
    "No, that's not necessary." She had no plants.
    "Well, I'll keep an eye out for your package."
    "Thanks. But don't open your door to a stranger."
    "Oh...kay."
    No need to take chances if the culprit was some kind of neighborhood gang. She promised to join him for dinner when she returned, and he seemed satisfied.
    She slung the duffel over her shoulder and headed for the door, her mind spinning. She'd pick up Goldie, alert the home office that she was being harassed, and hit the road while she considered whether she needed to find a new place to live.
    Her mail was scattered across the kitchen floor where she'd dropped it in her haste to arm herself. She scooped up the envelopes, stopping at the sight of the wedding invitation on top. An idea bloomed.
    The nuptials were to take place