Free A Secret Life by Barbara Dunlop

bookcase had been tipped over, and papers were strewn across the living room floor. The kitchen looked intact, but her writing nook was in complete disarray. Worst of all, there was a gaping hole where her computer had stood.
    Anthony reached for his phone and dialed 911.
    “I need to look upstairs,” said Joan, moving around Anthony. She kept backup disks in her bedroom closet.
    Anthony grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to his side. “This is Anthony Verdun,” he said into the phone. “I’m at Joan Bateman’s house on Amelie Lane. There’s been a robbery.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “I think they’re gone. Okay. We will.”
    He closed the phone.
    “You are not going anywhere,” he said to Joan.
    “My backup disks,” she told him. “They’re in my bedroom.” She had to know if her work was safe. That computer represented hours and days and months of her life. She had a manuscript in progress and hundreds of research files stored on it.
    If anybody could understand her panic, it was Anthony.
    He glanced at her writing nook and gritted his teeth. “Okay.”
    “Okay?” Heather shrieked. “You’re going to risk her neck for the backup disks?”
    “I’ll go first,” said Anthony.
    “Wait for the police,” said Heather. “ They have guns.”
    Anthony glared disdainfully down at her. “I can take care of myself.”
    “I don’t care about you. I care about Joan.”
    “I’m not going to let anything happen to Joan.”
    Heather folded her arms over her chest. “Of course you won’t. She’s your meal ticket.”
    Joan was mortified. “Heather!”
    “Do the interview,” Heather mimicked. “Do the interview and everything will be all right. Does this look all right to you?”
    Joan went cold. The interview. Could the break-in have something to do with the interview?
    She scanned the disordered room once more. Priceless works of art were left untouched. Her hall closet door was closed. The kitchen hadn’t been disturbed. Only her desk. Her computer. Her writing.
    She blinked up at Anthony. “Is this because of the interview?”
    “No,” he said. But she could tell he wasn’t completely sure.
    Joan backed away from him.
    He’d been wrong.
    She’d been wrong.
    She should have gone with her own instincts and stayed out of the limelight. This would probably make the news, too. Soon her father would be storming Indigo with court orders and bodyguards.
    She felt Heather’s thin arm go around her. “We’ll go to Paris,” her sister whispered.
    Joan’s heart-rate sped up, and her breathing deepened. Maybe she should have gone to Paris in the first place.

    P OLICE C HIEF Alain Boudreaux concluded what Anthony had already guessed. A fan had broken in looking for souvenirs. One of the neighbors had reported a cluster of people in front of Joan’s house while they were away in Lafayette. And there were several gushing messages on Joan’s answering machine.
    A fan was a whole lot better than a psychopathic criminal, and it was unlikely the fan would be back now that he had the souvenirs. Still, Anthony wasn’t taking any chances with Joan and Heather’s safety.
    Over their halfhearted protests, he checked them both into La Petite Maison, Heather on the second floor and Joan in the attic suite.
    “You don’t need to stay,” said Joan, sitting primly in the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The French doors were open to the small balcony, and the oak leaves rustled in the midnight breeze.
    “I don’t want to go,” said Anthony honestly. It had been a long, roller-coaster of a day for both of them.
    Their host, Luc Carter, had settled Heather into her room and promised to double lock the front door. Anthony’s room was directly below Joan’s, next to the attic staircase, and he fully intended to keep his door open all night long. Still, he wasn’t ready to have her out of his sight just yet.
    “Alain said the break-in happened this morning.” Anthony was desperate to