Killing Me Softly. Maggie ShayneЧитать онлайн книгу.
in his bed.
So he walked several steps down the driveway, but only got as far as his brand-new, candy-apple-red Mustang Shelby GT, before he had to stop and throw up. And he didn’t think it had anything to do with the alcohol he’d imbibed the night before. Dammit, how could Bette be dead? Much less strangled? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he’d imagined the marks on her throat. Maybe the chief had been right to put him on leave, and he did have some kind of PTSD or something going on, and he’d just imagined all of this. Maybe if he walked back into the house right now, he would find Bette sitting up in bed and griping about being late for whatever early-morning class she had.
He could almost believe it. He nearly turned and walked back inside. But something stopped him. The weight of the phone on his hand, he guessed. He needed to call his dad.
He wanted to call Dawn instead.
He wanted to hear her voice right now even more than he wanted to quell the waves of nausea battering his stomach. But that wasn’t going to happen. He and Dawn hadn’t spoken in five years. There was too much space between them now. Too much hurt. Too little effort to remedy or even address it. He couldn’t call Dawn, even though hearing her voice on the phone would make things better in a way nothing else could.
No. Not even Dawn could fix this.
He opened the car door, sat down inside and stared for a long moment at the dark, hulking shape in the distance, where the waterfall that gave this town its name shot off the end of a rocky ledge and tumbled down. The craggy flat-topped beast of a cliff was positioned in such a way that the waterfall itself was nearly always in shadow, making it dark and ominous looking, rather than cheerful or sparkly, the way most waterfalls seemed. Shadow Falls, the landmark, was not beautiful. It was downright spooky. But Shadow Falls, the town, had been the place with an opening on the police force after he’d finished college. And it was only an hour from what he considered home. And so it was perfect.
Or he’d thought it was.
But the town seemed far from perfect right now. Because it concealed something in its shadowy depths. Something evil. A cold-blooded killer was lurking here. And he’d never even known.
Sighing, Bryan called his father, fifty miles away in his hometown of Blackberry, Vermont.
2
Nick Di Marco was a big man. And it wasn’t entirely a physical thing. He was tall enough at five foot eleven, and his shoulders were wide and solid, even though he was lugging around some extra belly fat these days. His once raven-black hair was streaked with silver, his intense brown eyes lined with crow’s-feet that made his smiles more infectious, and his frowns downright scary. Beneath all of that, he was the best cop Bryan had ever had the honor to know. Retired or not.
And he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Di Marco was a hero cop, and everyone in Shadow Falls knew it.
So Bryan felt a little lighter when he saw Nick get out of his black, big-as-a-boat, old Crown Victoria and come striding toward him. Bryan got out of his own car, whose payments were as much as his rent, and tried to hide the fact that his knees were shaking. It was warm outside, the summer sun already beating down on them.
Nick threw his arms around Bryan, and it was no pat-on-the-back “guy” hug; this was a full-blown, real thing that squeezed the air right out of his lungs. “You okay, kid? You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Nick clapped a big palm to the back of Bryan’s head and crushed it to his shoulder for a second, then released him and backed off enough to search his face. “You call your dad?”
“Yeah. He’s on his way.”
“Good. That’s real good, Kendall.” Nick turned his head as another vehicle came skidding to a halt along the roadside. Chief MacNamara had driven the Bronco with the Shadow Falls Police Department logo—a black waterfall inside a circle made up of the words themselves—on the front doors, and the bubblegum lights on the roof. At least those lights weren’t flashing.
Chief Mac got out, thick shocks of unruly white hair sticking up all over. His face showed all the ruddy puffiness of a lifelong drinker, and his belly backed up the story. He was fat enough that he sort of swayed heavily from side to side when he tried to walk fast, which was what he was doing now.
“Somebody want to tell me just what the hell is going on here?” he demanded a little breathlessly.
Nick nodded. “Tell him, Kendall. Tell us both.”
Bryan took a deep breath and nodded once. “I had a party last night. To celebrate getting the okay to go back on the job Monday.” He nodded at Nick. “You were there—you can vouch for that part.”
Nick nodded and glanced at the chief. “It was no big deal. A few twelve-packs and some chips. Mostly cops, a few faces I didn’t know. A dozen, maybe eighteen, people at most.”
“You left early,” Bryan said, eyes lowered, gaze turned inward. “A few more people showed up later on. I think I remember most of them—I don’t know. I must have drunk way more than I thought. I woke up on the bathroom floor. Everyone had gone. I headed to the bedroom, wanted to get a few more hours of sleep—and Bette was there. And…” He lifted his head, looking the men in the eyes, first Nick and then Chief Mac. “She was dead,” Bryan said. He had to force out that final word, and his voice broke when he said it. “She was already cold. And there are ligature marks around her neck.”
The chief gaped, his jaw dropping as if its spring had broken. He took a step back, turned to stare at the house and pushed a hand through his crazy white hair. Then, swearing a blue streak, he started forward, hurrying toward the house with that swinging gait of his.
Nick clapped Bryan on the shoulder to get him moving, and in spite of his resistance to the notion, Bryan fell into step, the two of them following close behind the chief.
“You didn’t hear anything?” Chief Mac asked without looking back.
“No.”
“Careful, don’t touch a damn thing,” the chief went on as he stomped through the house and into the bedroom. Just inside the bedroom door he stopped, and his voice, when he spoke again, was lowered. Maybe out of respect for the dead. “In fact,” he added, “stay out of this room, Kendall. Di Marco, get in here. But be careful.”
Nick went into the bedroom with the chief, while Bryan stood in the doorway, his eyes riveted to the blue-tinted skin of Bette’s face, those sightless red eyes, the grotesquely twisted mouth.
The chief looked closely, not touching anything. “Strangled. Sure as shit. And she— Holy fuck.”
“What?” Bryan asked from the doorway, even while the chief gripped Nick Di Marco’s wrist and nodded at the nightstand.
Bryan followed their gazes and saw what was sitting there. A shot glass with a black scythe painted on it, a red rosebud above, severed from its stem by the blade and trailing tiny red droplets.
It was a design the three men had seen before.
“That can’t be,” Di Marco whispered. “There’s no way.” And despite the whisper, his voice trembled. “Sniff the glass, Chief. Check—”
“Whiskey,” the chief said after leaning over and in haling. He turned to Nick. “Check her mouth.”
Nick nodded and leaned close to the dead woman, his face so near hers it might have seemed to an outsider that he was about to kiss her. Without touching the body at all, Nick sniffed, and then he jerked upright again. “Whiskey,” he said. “God, this can’t be happening.”
“What?” Bryan asked. “What…what the hell is going on, Nick?” But he had a sinking feeling that he knew.
“Is that your shot glass, Bryan?” Nick asked.
“No.”
“It’s