Page 118 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

She’d even mentioned it to Dickie Ray, who had told her she worried too much. Like that was a news flash.

“Christ, Sugar, give the kid a break,” he’d said while trying to install a new fan belt on his truck. He’d turned and looked at her from beneath the hood, wiped his blackened hands on a greasy rag and clucked his tongue. “You gotta let her live her life. She don’t need you cluckin’ after her like some mother hen. And them phone calls. Hell, they’re probably from the perverts you dance for. It don’t take a fuckin’ brain surgeon to figure that one out!”

She’d let the subject drop. Dickie Ray was an idiot. Had been from the day he was born, like all of his nerves didn’t quite touch. He was probably the one who’d been sired by Cameron and hence had enough incestuous Montgomery genes to make him stupid. She’d read about that. Worried about it. But then, in that respect, Dickie Ray was right. She worried about everything.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Really wrong.

On her way out of the club, she hastened down a dark hallway, tripped over a mop bucket, caught herself, swore under her breath and made her way down the short flight of stairs to the back door, where a broken exit sign gave off only a bit of green light. Outside it wasn’t much better. The night was clear but dark. And still. Almost eerie.

The parking lot was empty except for one lone car.

Cricket’s old Chevy.

And her sister was at the wheel.

Thank God!

What the hell was her baby sister doing just sitting in her car in this part of town in the middle of the night?

Probably looking to score a hit or was already high.

Well, that was just plain crazy.

Sugar started for the car, intending to give Cricket a piece of her mind. She crossed the potholes of the parking lot, twisting her ankle in her haste. “Ouch! Shit. Damn it all to hell!” It just wasn’t her night.

At the hatchback, she tapped on the glass of the driver’s door with her finger, but Cricket didn’t respond. Just sat there, doped up and asleep, no doubt. Her skin looked white in the dark interior, though there were splotches on it. Dark, reddish welts along with streaks of mud. Like Cricket had been strung out for days and had a bad reaction. At that thought, Sugar began to worry all over again. “Hey!” she called. No response. She tried the door. It was locked. “Damn it, Cricket, open up!”

She leaned down and saw something in the reflection of the glass, a glimpse of movement in the shadows behind her. A figure running toward her on silent footsteps. Shit! Probably one of the perverts lurking by the Dumpster hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Listen, you warped son of a bitch, I’m not interested.”

She was slammed against the car.

“Ooof!” Her breath came out in a rush. Her head crashed against the door frame. Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her purse flew across the lot. “What the fuck?” She couldn’t see her attacker; her face was smashed against the side of the Chevy. A foul-tasting rag was stuffed into her mouth before she had a chance to scream.

What the hell was happening? Cricket was in the car, and this jackass was going to—what? Rape her? Shit.

Fear fired her blood. She fought for all she was worth. Sugar was strong and athletic, the hours dancing making her firm, but she couldn’t move. Her arm was twisted behind her so hard it nearly came out of its socket.

Panic ripped through her. This couldn’t be happening!

Cricket! For Christ’s sake, do something! Why wasn’t she moving? Why the hell wasn’t she moving? Why were her eyes so glassy, drugged out . . . and her skin was so pasty beneath the welts . . . dozens of them all over her face. Oh, fuck! No! Oh, God, no, no, no!

Finally Sugar understood. She clawed and tried to scream, but it was too late. Another rag was held to her nose, and she wrenched away from the smell of ether. Already her body disobeyed the commands of her screaming mind. Her knees sagged. Her arms and legs were like lead. Even her brain was failing. The lights of the parking lot were spinning in slow motion over her head, moving pinpoints against the dark canopy of the sky.

The pressure behind her eased. Slowly Sugar slid down the side of Cricket’s battered Chevrolet onto the pockmarked asphalt. She was vaguely aware that her attacker was swearing under his—no . . . her? . . . breath and scrabbling across the parking lot trying to retrieve the contents of Sugar’s spilled purse.

Sugar didn’t care . . . her entire body was numb . . . her thoughts floating . . . she wasn’t even scared, though she was certain she should be.

There was little doubt in her mind that she was about to die.

Thirty

Reed pulled the autopsy report on Rebecca Wade from the fax machine and immediately got lost in it. Probable cause of death was asphyxiation, not drowning. She’d been killed first, her tongue sliced out of her mouth and probably tucked into her empty purse, then the body ditched in the water.

Who would go to so much trouble?

Someone who was making a point.

You didn’t hack off a body part and wrap it in goddamned Saranwrap and tuck it into a designer leather bag unless you wanted to show off a little, taunt the police, say, “Hey, cops! Look over here. I did this, you idiots. I’m smarter than you.”

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