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despite my best relaxation exercises.  At last, I blew out a tense breath and rolled off the bed to get dressed again.  After a few moments of thought, I removed the window screen and disengaged the crank mechanism, just in case I needed to make a quick exit.
    I gazed down at the long drop to the back yard.  If I had to go out the window, I’d have to be careful to go over the tiny section of roof that projected out from the bay window directly below me.  It slanted toward the deck, so it was only an eight-foot drop.  I thought it would be doable if I slithered over and clung to the rain gutter to break my fall.
    I felt increasingly ridiculous as I made my elaborate plans, but hell, I’m a bookkeeper.  We get anal about details.
    I rehearsed my plan while I changed into my black yoga pants and a T-shirt and pulled my baggy navy blue hooded sweatshirt over top.  I surveyed my bloodstained jeans and shoe irritably.  I needed the shoe.  At least it wasn’t squishy anymore.  The jeans were ruined.  Dammit, that was exactly why I wore crappy clothes most of the time.
    Granted, I didn’t usually ruin my good clothes by getting shot and bleeding all over them.  That was a first.
    I threw the jeans in the garbage and put the shoes back on with clean socks underneath.  It wouldn’t be the most comfortable sleep I ever had, but if I had to run or fight, I’d be ready.
    “This is stupid!” I said aloud.  “Why didn’t I just go to a hotel?”
    Nobody supplied any useful answer, so I sighed and lay down again.

    The faint clanking of tin woke me from a fitful doze.  I was wide awake and rolling off the bed before the sound ceased.  I snatched up my backpack and dove for the window, my stiffened muscles screaming in protest.
    As I lunged out the window onto the roof, heavy footsteps pounded across the floor below me.  Slinging my pack on my back, I flopped onto my stomach and slid feet first over the edge of the roof.  As I slithered by, I caught the rain gutter with a wild one-handed grab, throwing myself completely off balance.  With a wrenching squeal, the eavestrough pulled loose from the house.  I dropped onto the deck below and landed hard on one foot before falling on my butt.
    “Shit, shit, shit!”
    I scrambled up and dashed across the deck.  Frantically blessing my long legs, I hopped over the deck railing onto the shed roof, then down onto the top rail of the fence.  I dropped to the ground and scuttled across the front of my neighbour’s house, concealed by her tall hedge.
    As I turned the corner, the sound of my outside door opening triggered a fresh burst of fear.  I cut across the neighbouring tree-filled yard as stealthily as I could on shaking legs, trying to stifle my panting.
    In the corner of the yard, I hoisted myself over the back fence and into the unlit strip of parkland that wound through the neighbourhood.  I flew along the path, heart hammering, and dodged around the first turn.  Trying to pant silently, I flattened myself against someone’s back fence to listen for sounds of pursuit.
    Nothing.
    Squatting down in the deepest puddle of shadow near some shrubs, I pulled my cell phone from my backpack to dial 911, my shaking fingers fumbling at the tiny buttons.  When the display illuminated, I discovered a serious flaw in my planning.  My cell phone battery was almost dead.
    Dammit!
    As soon as the police dispatcher answered, I babbled my address and told him that someone had broken in.
    “Get out of the house!” the dispatcher barked.  “Get out immediately!”
    “I’m already out of the house,” I whispered.  “I’m calling from my cell phone, and the battery is about to die.”
    “Stay with me on your cell phone,” he commanded.  “Go to a neighbour’s house and call me from a land line as soon as you get there.”
    I was about to agree when it occurred to me that if I was being stalked by spies and/or nutcases, there was no way I wanted to involve some