Free When the Storm Breaks by Heather Lowell

went down the stairs in a rush.
    Given her new awareness of the dangers in the city, Olivia had worked herself into a major case of the willies by the time she got to her car. Glancing uneasily around the tree-shaded street, she opened the trunk and deposited the suitcase in record time. She didn’t breathe easily untilshe was behind the wheel with the doors locked and the engine running.
    Olivia stopped long enough to twist her hair into a careless knot, allowing air from the vents to move across her damp neck and shoulders. She chided herself for her jumpiness—she was just overreacting to Claire’s recent attack. There was no one on the street, no other sounds but the occasional car driving by.
    “Get a grip.” She spoke aloud in the air-conditioned safety of the car. It didn’t make her feel better.
    Determined to push the uneasiness away, Olivia made plans to stop by the seafood market tomorrow morning before picking Claire up from the hospital. Some shrimp etouffée would do them both a world of good.

Chapter 13
    Washington, D. C.
    Sunday morning
    T he man sat behind the wheel of his two-door BMW, ignoring the trickles of sweat that slid down his face and neck. He’d been sitting in the car for over an hour with the tinted windows only partially opened. He would come back later, at night, and walk around the area again. He needed to get a feel for the place—neighbors, kids, dogs, lighting, and the flimsy fence around Marie Claire’s house. But for now it was enough to sit and watch and think of his sweet prey almost within his reach.
    Marie Claire.
    The intimacy of knowing his victim’s name during the planning stages of the game was a sexual thrill. He kept saying her name in his mind and whispering it in the car.
    He’d been parked in several spots along Marie Claire’s street all morning, waiting to catch a glimpse of her in one of the windows, or maybe even outside. There had been no movement at all. Judging by the junk papers and ad mailers that had piled up on the front stoop, she probably hadn’t been home in several days.
    The news hadn’t mentioned her at all. Maybe she had a boyfriend. Or maybe she’d been injured badly enough to be in the hospital, but he didn’t think so. It would have been all over the TV. Reporters loved a victim with a pretty face.
    A small sedan passed his car for the third time in as many minutes, then slowed in front of Marie Claire’s house. Under his intense gaze, the driver double-parked the car and got out, leaving the hazard lights flashing. He forced himself not to move as the petite woman looked up and down the street. He was sure she couldn’t see him, over forty feet away and parked in the shadow of a huge tree. As she trotted up the steps and paused to unlock the front door, he noted her small size and vibrant red hair.
    This wasn’t Marie Claire. Maybe it was a roommate.
    Over the next ten minutes, all the curtains were closed as the woman moved around both floors of the town home. He wondered what the hell she was doing. Maybe she didn’t live there after all.
    Less than fifteen minutes later the woman came out of the house again, this time carrying a small suitcase.
    Excitement surged through him as he considered the possibilities. He was betting the little redhead had packed a suitcase for Marie Claire, which meant she was staying somewhere else. But where?
    When the woman froze at the top of the steps, he deliberately looked away, sensing that she was somehow aware of his intense interest. He used his peripheral vision to watch her descend the stairs and put the suitcase in the trunk of the double-parked sedan. Then she got behind the wheel and started the engine. The sound carried through his open window on the muggy breeze.
    He waited while she put the car in gear and headeddown the street away from him. It was easy to keep her in sight on the straight, meticulously planned blocks of the Georgetown neighborhood. He let another car go by before