He smiled. “Back atcha.”
But as he drove toward home, he wondered if there would ever be enough of her to go around. Between her job and the kids, there wasn’t much time left for a relationship.
CHAPTER NINE
“You need a name,” I say to one of the serpents in my living room.
The dirt-colored body is coiled in its water bowl in the corner of the aquarium. When I think about a snake, I envision a slender, lithe animal, but this one is short and thick, only about four feet long from its primitive-looking rattle to the blunt, wedge-shaped head.
The snakes had hissed and rattled as I moved their aquariums to my SUV and drove home. I check the latches on the top of each tank. No one wants an agitated rattlesnake loose in the house. The lids are secure. But I don’t kid myself. I did plenty of research before I embarked on this step of my plan. The glass between us creates an illusion of control, but these animals are angry and dangerous.
Like me. Maybe that’s why I identify with them—why I had to have them the moment I first saw them. I, too, am poised to strike.
Snakes sense vibrations. I did my best to minimize their stress, but riding in the back of my SUV must have been sensory overload for such creatures. The other two have gone quiet, but not this one. I can feel its animosity with every flick of its tongue. Or perhaps I’m projecting my own hostility.
Dawn is hours away. I watch the serpent with a macabre fascination. Even motionless, it exudes power and confidence, as if aware of its deadly capabilities.
I would love to have its self-assurance, its lack of complication. The snake doesn’t worry about its purpose or understand the constructs of past and future. It can’t comprehend regret. It lives in the moment. It exists.
It simply is.
And there is something magnificent in its single-mindedness.
I wish I could harness its coldness, but my rage feels hot. The snake feels no emotions. I feel too many.
“I know it’s not a politically correct term, but considering what I’ve done—and what I’m still planning—I shouldn’t be concerned with social boundaries. You are my spirit animal, and you’re going to be part of my signature.”
The animal stirs. The head rises, slowly, intently. The tongue flicks out; the head turns a few degrees. Another tongue flick, as the snake pulls my scent into its mouth over and over, processing the smells of its new environment—of me.
“You’re a bit smaller than the other two. I’m going to guess you’re female.” The smile spreads across my face like the Grinch. Who is the most famous female killer? “I’m going to call you Lizzie. Those two can be Ted and Jack.”
Now I need to learn their triggers. My voice didn’t do it.
I wave my arm and jump up and down a few times. The floorboards shudder under me. The lid on the tank shakes. It—Lizzie—seems to coil more tightly, as if preparing to strike. I sense her tension. The tip of the snake’s tail shivers in response. A soft rattle emanates from the tank. The other two are a few feet away, but they also begin to show signs of agitation, restless movements and tongue flicks. Another’s tail rattles.
“Yes,” I croon. “That’s it.”
The rattling sound both thrills and scares me. I can’t imagine the terror of being close to one without the benefit of its secure enclosure.
Snakes strike when they feel threatened. The natural response to being trapped with a venomous snake is to panic. Sudden movements scare the snake. My plan is going to work nicely.
I’m almost giddy as I imagine it. “Won’t they be surprised?”
But for now, I’ll concentrate on the most important detail: my next target.
I read my list to the snakes and hold up each person’s profile picture, turning the image to the animals so they can see my prospective victims’ faces. “Who do you think should die next?”
CHAPTER TEN
Bree opened her eyes to darkness, but her internal clock told her she needed to get up. She liked to be home before the kids woke for school. She tried to roll over, but her movement was impeded by a huge dog head resting on her ankles. Matt’s German shepherd, Brody, was wedged in between their bodies. She flexed her toes. Pins and needles shot up her calves. She slid her feet out from under his head, making a ridiculous attempt not to wake the dog.
“He’ll move,” Matt said in her ear.
“I hate to disturb him.”
Matt chuckled. “It’s not like he has to get up and go to work. He’s going to sleep approximately twenty hours today.”
Bree laughed. “As a retired hero should.”
Brody had been Matt’s K-9 partner. He’d been shot in the same friendly-fire incident that had ended Matt’s career as a deputy.
“I’ll make coffee.” Matt kissed her neck, then slid out of bed. His movement triggered a motion-sensing nightlight, which cast a semicircle of light on the floor. Wearing only a pair of boxers, he cut a fine figure even in the dimness.
Watching him, Bree smiled. He made her happy in ways she hadn’t known were possible ten months ago. She slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom in one of Matt’s T-shirts, which was warm enough when she was under a comforter with his heat-producing body. A minute later, she hurried back to bed, shivering.
Brody army-crawled up the bed and stretched out alongside Bree, his body pressed against her from her ribs to her toes. The dog produced as much heat as his owner. She stroked his shoulder, then scratched behind an ear. “Who’s a good boy?” she crooned.
The dog’s tail thumped on the mattress.
A childhood mauling had left Bree terrified of dogs for most of her life. Ten months ago, she hadn’t imagined spooning with one.
Yet here she was. And that phrase described so much of her current life.
Matt carried two mugs of coffee into the bedroom. He set one on her nightstand, then rounded the bed and climbed back onto the mattress. “Hey, Brody, how about a little room here?”
The dog ignored him. Matt tugged a section of the comforter out from under the dog and tossed it over his bare legs. Then he leaned back against the headboard and sipped his coffee.
Bree wiggled to a sitting position, tucked a pillow behind her back, and reached for her cup. “Your dog sure understands passive resistance.”
“He taught himself to play dead.”
Bree ruffled Brody’s ears. “He’s a smart boy.”
“The smartest,” Matt agreed, stroking his dog’s head.
“Do you think he’s missing Greta?” Bree asked. Matt had fostered a young German shepherd for his sister’s canine rescue group. He’d recognized Greta as a potential K-9 working dog. Bree’s department hadn’t had a K-9 unit since Brody had retired. The rescue had helped raise the money for Greta’s equipment and training. She and her handler were currently at the academy.
“Maybe a little, but her energy was wearing on him.” Matt laughed. “What’s on the agenda for this morning?”
Bree took a long, deep swallow of coffee, hoping the caffeine made a speedy entry into her bloodstream. Three hours of sleep were not enough. “Stop home and see the kids off to school. I want to drive by the crime scene to get a look at the yard in the daylight and see if the across-the-street neighbor is home. After that, we should review progress and plans with Todd.”