An Unexpected Grace by Kristin von Kreisler Read Free Book Online Page A

sparse than on the rest of her so pink skin showed through.
    â€œAdam’s put up posters. She’ll have a home in no time. Everybody loves goldens,” Cristina said.
    Everybody minus me.
    â€œSo you’ll house-sit?” Cristina asked.
    â€œWhatever you need. I’m glad to help.”
    Cristina clapped her hands together. “Fabulous!”
    For the first time in months, Lila’s heart brimmed with hope.

7
    W hen two strange men walked up to Cristina’s front porch, Lila’s breath caught in her throat. She told herself they were selling or campaigning for something, but the reality check didn’t neutralize her fear, which was stark because Cristina had taken the dogs to get Rosie at school. Lila was alone.
    If the men hadn’t seen her through the front door’s glass, she’d have gone to her room and pretended no one was home. One, in a dark suit and wide, lime-green tie, was about to knock; when he saw her through the panes, he dropped his hand to his side and waited for her to answer the door. The other, in a rumpled blazer, scowled as she approached. She scowled back because the last thing she wanted was to talk with men she didn’t know.
    She cracked the door an ultra-wary four inches, narrow enough to slam shut. Not that slamming the door would do any good when the men could knock it down like the ones did in her recurring nightmare.
    â€œLila Elliot?” the man in the rumpled blazer asked.
    â€œYes.” She cleared her throat. It was tight, as if she were squeezing back a cry for help and holding it in reserve in case she needed it, though neighbors were too far away to hear.
    The man in the lime-green tie flipped open a leather case and showed her a badge. “Rich Mason. San Francisco PD. We want to talk to you about Yuri Makov.”
    His name hit Lila like a cloud of pepper spray. She studied the badge. She’d heard of men impersonating police, then robbing or killing people. But the badge looked real, and the men knew who she was. With resignation, she opened the door.
    Rich stepped into the entry and thrust out a large, friendly hand, like a dog’s paw, for a shake. His clammy hand made hers feel clammy too. He said, “Sorry to bother you. You must be upset about what happened.” He was tall, slim, and clean-cut. Lila could picture him jogging along a beach or drinking wheat-grass juice at a health bar.
    The other man was pudgy and dour. He introduced himself as Joe Arruzzi and grunted something about how hard it had been to find her. His clothes smelled of cigarette smoke. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, and the bags under his eyes looked like small hammocks filled with fat people.
    Lila led the men into the living room. As her mother had taught her to do when visitors came, she offered them a Coke. They declined. Rich settled into one of Cristina’s red club chairs, and Lila sank into the other. Joe leaned against the oak fireplace mantel, jingling the coins in his pockets and surveying Cristina’s poodle sculptures on the tabletops and windowsills.
    When Rich leaned forward almost close enough for his knees to touch Lila’s, his coat fell open; at his waist the handle of a gun stuck out of a leather holster. She winced—his gun was the first she’d seen since getting shot—but Rich seemed not to notice her discomfort. Smiling, supportive, and sunny, he uncapped his pen and flipped open a notepad. Clearly, he was going to take the lead, and Joe was going to stand by watching.
    â€œYou were new at Weatherby, weren’t you,” Rich said, not so much a question as a fact.
    â€œI’d worked there three months,” Lila said.
    â€œDid you know Makov very well?” Rich asked.
    â€œNo. We just talked once in a while.”
    â€œHow would you describe him? Outgoing? Secretive? Troubled?”
    â€œMaybe a little odd. He didn’t know much English. He was