No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) Read Online Free Page B

room with my purse. He saw my dad and stopped in horror. “Mr. Carmichael,” he said in a breathless rush. “Lexi wanted me to get her purse and…”
    “It’s all right,” my dad said, sighing. “I know what Lexi talked you into doing.”
    “Can I borrow him for a few minutes more?” I asked since my dad seemed so accommodating. “I’d like him to walk me to my car.”
    He frowned. I’d never asked for an escort to my car before and I could sense more questions hovered on his lips. But he nodded. “Of course.”
    “Thanks, Dad,” I said, trying to push Sasha out the door before my dad could change his mind or ask me questions I didn’t want to answer. “Tell Mother goodbye for me and that I’ll call her tomorrow. We can go…ah, shopping or something.” I cringed as the words left my lips. Did I just say I’d go shopping with my mother? Sheesh, guilt was hell.
    “What a lovely idea. I’ll tell her,” Dad said before I could retract my statement.
    Sasha walked me to the car, keeping a brisk pace. Thankfully no huge forms lurked in the shadows ready to grab me. Just the same, I checked the backseat of my convertible, under the car and in the trunk. Sasha probably thought I was crazy, but he’s always thought that about Americans, so nothing new here.
    I drove home to my apartment with the top down, the precious loaf of bread sitting in the passenger seat, moonlight streaming across my arms, and the radio blaring. I had pretty much calmed down by the time I got home and was ready to have a heart-to-heart chat with Basia about the Beefster via the telephone and then drop dead into bed. It had been that kind of day.
    I zoomed into the parking lot and found a space not too far from the complex entrance. It’s not a fancy building, just standard colonial brick with about forty-five apartments with small balconies. I live in the small, rural town of Jessup, Maryland. There are only a handful of apartment complexes in town. Out of the approximately eleven thousand people who live here, half own their own homes. The rest of us work for the NSA. Our talents lie in the area of national security, not gardening, home improvement or lawn mowing. It makes sense since we are largely math, computer science and language majors—great with numbers, linguistics and outsmarting the bad guys, but at a complete loss with a plant.
    My mother was horrified when I decided to move to Jessup. In her mind it is serious redneck country and I might as well have moved to West Virginia. Now when friends ask her where I live, she is nonspecific and says near Baltimore.
    After checking the parking lot for any suspicious characters, I covered the top of my Miata and locked it. Usually I’m bold enough to leave it unlocked, but unpleasant images of Beefy still played in my head. I secured the bread beneath my arm and keyed in the code to the front door of the apartment complex. When it buzzed open, I trudged up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. No fancy elevator in this place. I unlocked the door and fumbled for the light switch. But when I flicked it on, nothing happened.
    Alarm bells went off in my head, but “uh, oh,” was all I had time to say before a man stepped out of my apartment and yanked me inside. He clamped a hand down over my mouth, the other snaking around my neck. Instinctively I clawed at his arm, feeling thick muscles and hair. I caught the faint scent of mint aftershave. My purse and the stolen loaf of bread dropped to the floor with a thud. I kicked my legs ferociously as my attacker slammed the door shut with his foot and dragged me into my living room.
    “Sit down,” he said against my ear, but didn’t remove his hand from my mouth. “If you scream, I’ll shoot you. I’ve got a gun with a silencer, so no one will hear a sound and you’ll be dead before you hit the carpet. Do you understand?”
    I nodded, my heart thudding in my chest. This was the second time today I’d been confronted with a