Page 2 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

He couldn’t speak.

“You can think of me as Atropos.”

Atropos? What the hell?

“Oh. That’s right. You probably don’t know about the three fates, do you? In mythology, there were three women who determined your fate. The daughters of Zeus were called the Moirai. Three sisters who determined a man’s destiny.”

Mythology? What the hell? The scissors winked in the light from the desk lamp. He shivered inside.

“There’s Klotho, of course. She’s the youngest and she spins the thread of life while the middle sister Lachesis is the measurer. She selects one’s lot in life and determines how long that life will be.”

The scissors came closer, their sharp point touching the skin beneath his eye.

He tried to flinch but remained as if cemented to the desk.

“Then there is Atropos. The strongest. Who actually ends the life by snipping that precious thread.” She clicked the scissors. “The name I chose.”

What? No!

Snip!

The scissors bit at the flesh of his cheek, touching his eyelashes.

He felt nothing. No pain.

She held up his bare wrist.

Clip!

The first welling drops of red blood rose to the surface.

Oh, God, no! Desperately he tried to jerk away. Succeeded only in grunting. Couldn’t even cringe as the evil weapon took another nasty little bite, blood smearing the blade, fear jolting through him as he realized that the person he couldn’t see was determined to slowly and methodically kill him.

This couldn’t be happening! It had to be a dream. A nightmare. What demented person would do this? Oh, God . . . blood was flowing freely now, down his wrist and into his palm, running down his fingers to pool on the desk. Stop! For God’s sake, stop!

Maybe this was just to scare him, maybe he wasn’t going to die. Maybe someone was just making a cruel point. God knew there were enough people in this town who wanted him dead.

But a gunshot to the head would have done the trick.

Or a pill slipped into his drink.

Or a knife in his damned heart.

Unless his would-be killer was enjoying this . . . that it wasn’t so much his death as his dying that mattered. Unless the sick bitch got off on the knowledge that he was helpless as he watched his own lifeblood trickle and spurt from his body. Gasping, realizing that he would slowly bleed to death, Josh moved his eyes to the glass humidor located on one corner of his desk. In the smooth, curved surface he saw his own pale reflection and just the hint of a figure, grotesque in the distorted glass, leaning over him.

For a second, his eyes locked with those of his attacker. He saw the face of his killer. A suggestion of a smile, the hint of satisfaction curved his murderer’s lips.

All hope fled.

He recognized the warped face, and he realized with heart-stopping clarity that he was condemned to watch himself slowly bleed to death.

One

Pain thundered through her head. As if a thousand horses were stampeding through her brain. Her tongue was thick and a bad taste lingered in her mouth and there was something more . . . something bad, a sensation of oppression that seemed to pin her to her bed. Her heart was pounding wildly, her skin soaked in sweat, faint images of her dream . . . of Josh . . . of walking up the brick path to his house cut through her consciousness.

Her shoes crunched against dry leaves. The wind rattled through the branches of the oaks, billowing the Spanish moss. Somewhere nearby a dog barked and the smell of cigar smoke hung in the air. You shouldn’t be here. Go, run! Up the steps to the brick house that used to be her home. The door was cracked. A slice of light spilled onto the front porch. An invitation in a dark, sultry night. Don’t do it. Don’t go inside!

Dear God, what did I do last night? Caitlyn opened one bleary eye just a slit. She was so thirsty . . . and her entire body ached. Too much alcohol . . . Way too much. She was in her bedroom. The ceiling fan whirred overhead as dawn began to filter past the curtains. Images of the night before were hazy and out of sequence. She’d gone out to meet her sister . . . yes, that was it because . . . she needed to get out, to unwind.

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