Page 94 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

It was because she was a damnably sexy woman; one he couldn’t pigeonhole. She was shy one minute, bold the next. Her worries seemed real—or were they a part of a deeper psychosis?

I’m afraid . . . oh, Jesus . . . I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.

A murderess?

Nah.

So how did she get the slashes on her wrists?

What about all the blood she said had been in her bedroom ? Real? Or hallucination?

And which was worse?

He dabbed at his forehead with the end of his towel, then walked to the kitchen and pulled a beer from his refrigerator. He could not get involved with Caitlyn Bandeaux. Could not. He popped the tab on his Millers and took a long pull. Who the hell did he think he was kidding? He was involved. Big time.

It was already too late.

Atropos rowed silently through the water; the boat skimmed across the current and even though she was tired, she smiled. Her car was tucked away, and with the light of the moon to guide her, she’d hurried down the path to the river. Her canoe was where she’d left it and she pushed off into the dark current. She’d always felt at home on the water and thrilled to the night; like a vampire, she thought, rowing steadily against the pull of the river. Looking up at the moon, she was reminded of her task. It had been unclear once, but now she knew her path. Sensing a storm brewing, she guided her sleek craft to the dock. Quickly she cut up the path. She was tired and exhilarated at the same time. The killings were always exhausting as well as replenishing, but she needed a little time to rest. To consider what she’d done. To reflect.

Quietly she slunk through the shadows to her private space, then hurried down the stairs. She didn’t have much time. Soon it would be dawn. She found the flashlight where she’d left it and shined it on her captive. Cricket blinked hard, and her gaze moved from the flashlight’s beam to the jar of spiders. She blanched and squirmed, trying to shout through her gag. She’d have to be subdued again.

“I took care of another one,” Atropos said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a life cord.

Cricket froze.

“Berneda. You know, the mother.” Atropos sighed and shook her hair over her shoulder. She could use a cigarette . . . but not yet. Cricket was squirming away on the dirt, trying to put distance between herself and the milk jug. Pathetic. Such a brazen girl turned to jelly—all by a few little spiders. How easy it was to know their fears.

Haunted eyes looked up at Atropos. “That’s right. She’s dead.”

The eyes rounded and there was a gasp, a muffled intake of breath. “How? Oh, she had a bad heart and then . . . well, a little trouble breathing.”

Why waste her breath? The pitiful illegitimate spawn of the father would never understand. “But don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long.” She touched the cord surrounding the neck of the milk jug. “See.”

She didn’t, of course. Cricket just stared up at her as if she were insane. Her! A little niggle of doubt, the fear that was always just under the surface, wormed its way up and for a heartbeat she questioned her own sanity, but then she pushed that scary idea far back in her brain, past the pain beginning to pound. She glanced down at the frightened piece of filth bound, gagged and shivering with fear. “It’s almost your turn,” Atropos said, just to keep Cricket in her place.

She trained her light on the bookcase and found the hidden lever. She flipped off the flashlight and heard Cricket’s mewling again. It was enough to make her break the rules and kill her before her time.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Patience is a virtue.

Yeah, whoever came up with that stupid saying?

Atropos had learned early on that a person had to make her own way; she couldn’t wait for it to be handed to her.

She stepped into her surgical slippers and slid into the clean white room, her sanctuary, away from nasty spiders, nastier white-trash prisoners, and into the coolness where she could regroup and find inner peace.

For a while she could bask in her accomplishments.

Until the next time.

Which, she knew, would be very, very soon.

“. . . oh, God, Caitlyn, she’s dead. Mother is dead!” Hannah’s voice quivered, and deep, heart-wrenching sobs tore from her throat as she wailed into the phone.

Caitlyn froze at her desk. She’d been working, trying not to freak out about her meeting with the lawyer scheduled for this afternoon and pushing aside all her jumbled thoughts and conflicted emotions about Adam Hunt. “Wait a minute,” she said. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Steadied herself against her desk. “Just calm down.” There had to be some mistake. Had to. Maybe Hannah was tripping out again. She’d already overdosed on LSD once before; there was a chance that she was hallucinating, having a really bad trip. “Mom’s in the hospital. Remember? She’s getting the best care available and—”

“And she’s dead! Don’t you get it? Dead!”

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