A loud crash, followed by two more in rapid succession shattered the quiet. Maggie swung around toward the noise. Something had hit the stone wall surrounding the property. Icy downhill road, more than one car . . . Another impact rattled the glass in the window as if struck by a hard fist.
Flashing strobe lights snapped on, and a piercing alarm rang out. She surged off the bedroom floor, scattering papers, Post-it notes, song fragments and lyrics in all directions. She knew security was in place—she’d said good-night to Bradley an hour before. A glance at the bedroom door told her the cameras had triggered on. A crash, probably on the hill outside the property, ice complicating the speed and making the collision into the wall worse, multiple vehicles. Bad, she told herself, but not that unexpected, living here rather than on the sixtieth floor of a high-rise.
Then she heard a sharp snap, an avalanche of glass striking tile like a high note shattering a crystal glass. Patio door! She bolted for the safe room, hit the mechanism in the closet as David had taught her, moving so quickly the door had barely opened before she was through. She turned to her right, reached hands toward the panel, punched it, and counterweights shifted to slide the door back with a whoosh, locking deep into matching grooves. The bolt of the lock dropping into place echoed like a deep-toned bell in the small space.
Battery-operated lights switched on automatically. On trembling limbs she slid to the floor, sucked in a deep breath. She was in a fortress of steel in an unreachable space. David had drilled the need for speed into her, and she had never been so grateful for something she’d only halfheartedly listened to at the time.
Someone has broken into my home—someone is inside. Bradley was on the grounds, local security would already have the alert, and the notification system in the safe room was linked directly to the police. A lot of responding officers would be helping out Bradley within minutes. Security cameras would already be showing them the intruder—who, how many, where they were.
She rubbed a shaking hand over her face. Her chest hurt. She forced a calming breath, and another, treating the panic attack as if simply stressing out before a concert—gaining control of her breathing and heart rate from long practice. She pressed her hands into the carpet, fisted them into the fibers.
How would someone know this is my home? That was so closely held information, it was virtually inaccessible. How many intruders were inside? What did they want? Were they after money? The lights were off downstairs, making it look like no one was at home. Break in, grab valuables, leave before the cops arrive. Not that much by way of furnishings had arrived yet. She wasn’t one to collect coins or stamps or six-figure paintings. Probably a garden-variety burglar in an upscale neighborhood. It was easier for her to settle on that generic outcome than the possibility an irrational fan had found her.
Many in the music scene knew she’d left New York for Chicago. But today’s internet made it possible for resourceful people to find out what they wanted. If this intruder knew it was her home, it could be an unhinged person who either hated her music or loved it too much. Both obsessions came with large numbers of people, some of them just plain nuts. Maggie gave a shaky laugh and wiped her eyes. “Some people are just nuts,” she said aloud.
The deep quiet was almost as unsettling as the crashes had been. She couldn’t see what was going on outside, couldn’t make a call out. She understood why it was designed that way, but now the silence she could feel was thoroughly creeping her out. No phone. No video. Just a hidden fortress.
The security firm would have alerted David—it was set in stone with him. Anything happened, he was first in the loop. He’d probably be the one opening the door in a couple of hours. He’d warned her on that time delay, and now she hated that too.
Yet he wouldn’t be quick to open the door, not until the threat had been dealt with, neutralized, cops were off the immediate scene, and a plan was in place to safely and securely move her out and away. And the press would likely assemble in droves, attracted to the commotion, then rumors it was her home. David would want her to remain in her fortress so police or security weren’t hounding her with questions, complicating matters. He would make sure if and when she did give a statement, it would be at a neutral location, probably the home of a friend. She had understood it. Appreciated it. And now felt imprisoned by it.
She looked up and to her left. If she flipped the cover on that side panel and pressed the red button, David would respond instantly and get her out of this room. It was there to signal she was physically injured, needed immediate help.