Trust Me

some of my stuff here. Shirts, socks, a razor. What do you think? It would be more convenient.”
    Desdemona stilled. She stared at the blue-corn pancakes in the pan The lacy edges were turning an interesting shade of blue-brown.
    “Forget it,” Stark said swiftly, casually, as if it were the most unimportant thing in the world. “Just a passing thought. This place isn’t all that big, anyway. You don’t have a lot of room to store someone else’s clothes.”
    “It’s not that.” Desdemona carefully removed the second helping of pancakes and set them on Stark’s plate. She wondered how to explain that no man’s clothes had ever hung in her closet. “I just hadn’t ever considered the idea.”
    “I don’t blame you. A real invasion of privacy. Sorry I even mentioned it.”
    “All right.”
    He looked at her. “What?”
    “I said all right.” She carried the plate over to the counter and set it down. “You can leave a few things in my closet.”

    Desdemona was still contemplating the prospect of her clothes sharing space with some of Stark’s staid white shirts when she walked down the alley to the rear door of Right Touch half an hour later.
    There was nothing on the Right Touch schedule today, but Desdemona had decided to go into work early. She had left the apartment right after Stark had.
    Thoughts of Stark filled her head. Her family was going to think that she had lost her mind when they found out that he was leaving personal belongings in her apartment.
    No doubt about it, her mother was going to be seriously alarmed. Her father would be full of paternal misgivings. Bess and Juliet would issue dire warnings. Tony would have a fit.
    But she was a Wainwright in love, Desdemona reminded herself as she dug her key out of her purse. Wainwrights took chances.
    She did not notice anything wrong until she tried to insert her key into the lock.
    The door was already open.
    A jolt of fear went through her. Desdemona took a deep breath and squelched the unwarranted reaction. It was eight-thirty in the morning, not midnight. The door was unlocked because someone else had come in to work early. Several Wainwrights had keys.
    Desdemona took a grip on her nerves, opened the door wider, and stepped into the vast kitchen. The miniblinds that covered the windows of her darkened office were closed, just as she had left them yesterday.
    All of the overhead lights were off, but there was a faint glow coming from the walk-in freezer. Desdemona frowned when she saw that the freezer door was standing wide open. Someone had indeed come into work early. Whoever it was must have gotten mixed up about the morning events schedule for the week.
    Desdemona started forward. “Juliet? Aunt Bess? What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”
    A soft rasp of sound just off to her left brought Desdemona to a halt. Her office door had opened.
    She whirled around.
    A tall, shambling figure of a man loomed in the doorway. There was something terribly wrong with his face. It seemed contorted into an inhuman shape. A dirty cap was pulled down low over his eyes.
    He had a gun in one hand.
    Desdemona tried to scream and could not get the sound out of her throat. Terror paralyzed her. She saw the gun come up, point at her, saw the bizarre face twist.
    Something glinted on the edge of Desdemona’s horrified vision. It was light from the open alley door reflecting on a heavy steel soup kettle stored on a nearby shelf.
    The bright steel broke Desdemona’s trance. She grabbed the kettle with both hands and hurled it at the man with the gun.
    He dodged instinctively and simultaneously pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. It struck the kettle, knocking it to the side.
    Desdemona cast one helpless look at the alley door and abandoned any thought of escape in that direction. The gunman stood between her and the exit.
    She turned and ran toward the walk-in freezer. The steel door was thick and well insulated. With any luck it would stop a bullet.
    The gloom of the darkened kitchens provided her with some protection. She darted around the end of the long, stainless-steel work counter and rushed toward the freezer.
    A second shot exploded behind her. It thudded into the old brick wall.
    She heard footsteps, but she did not look back. She reached the freezer, hurtled into the small, icy chamber, whirled around, and pulled the thick door shut behind herself. It seemed to take forever to close.
    Footsteps pounded on the tiles.
    The