Free The Collector by Nora Roberts

twenty years older. Or anything that didn’t hit every single one of her yum buttons.
    A woman shouldn’t think yum in this situation, she reminded herself, and opened the door.
    â€œHi. Come on in.” She thought about shaking hands, but the gesture seemed stiff and formal. So she just lifted them, let them fall. “I don’t know how to do this. It all feels so weird and strange.”
    â€œYou called. I’m here. That’s a start.”
    As he didn’t understand awkward, Thomas padded right over to greet Ash. “Your cat or theirs?”
    â€œOh, theirs. Thomas is great company though. I’ll miss him when the job’s finished.”
    Ash gave the cat one long stroke, head to tail, as she often did herself. “Do you ever get confused when you wake up in the morning? Like, where am I exactly?”
    â€œNo, not in a long time. Crossing time zones can throw me off, but mostly I work in and around New York.”
    â€œThis is a nice space,” he said, when he straightened. “Good light.”
    â€œIt really is. And you’re making small talk so I won’t feel so weird. Why don’t I show you where I was when it happened? That’s the hard part, and that’ll be done.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI’m staying in the guest room.” She gestured. “It has a windowfacing west. That night I was unwinding after Julie left. Oh, she knows you. Julie Bryant. She manages Chelsea Arts.”
    Tall, glamorous redhead, he thought, with an excellent eye and a great what-the-hell laugh. “You know Julie?”
    â€œWe’ve been friends for years. She was here until a little before midnight that night. There was a lot of wine, then cupcakes involved, so I was restless. I picked these up.”
    She offered him the binoculars.
    â€œI make up stories, it’s what I do. I had a few going on in some of the windows over there, so I was checking them out for the next scene. That sounds ridiculous.”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t. I make up images—that’s just another kind of story.”
    â€œWell, good. I mean good it doesn’t sound ridiculous. Anyway, I saw her. Sage Kendall.”
    â€œAt the window that’s boarded up now.”
    â€œYeah. The one to the left with the little balcony is the bedroom.”
    â€œThese take you right there, don’t they?” He spoke softly as he looked through the glasses.
    â€œIt’s always been a game for me—since I was a kid. Like television or a movie or book. I stopped a burglary once—in Paris a couple years ago. I saw someone break into the flat across from where I was staying one night when the tenants were out.”
    â€œTravel and adventure, and crime-solving. The life of a house-sitter.”
    â€œMostly not the crime-solving, but . . .”
    â€œYou didn’t see Oliver. My brother.”
    â€œNo, just her. The bedroom light was off, and whatever light was on in the living area was on low. She was in front of the window. Like this.”
    She stepped up, angling herself. “Talking to someone who must have been standing just off to her left, in the wall space between windows. I saw him hit her. It was so fast, but I must have seen his hand.What I remember is the way her head snapped back, the way she put her own hand up to her face, like this.”
    Lila demonstrated, cradling her cheek and jaw in her hand.
    â€œHe hit her again. Fist, dark sleeve. That’s all I saw, so fast I barely saw it. My phone was there, on the table by the bed. I grabbed it, then I looked back out. Then she was against the glass. I could only see her back, her hair coming down out of her updo.”
    â€œShow me. Would you mind?”
    â€œLike . . .” She turned her back to the window, adjusted for the sill as she leaned back on the glass.
    â€œAnd you only saw her. You’re sure of it?”
    â€œYes. I’m