Her entire body quivered, her stomach churned. Flashes of Christmas Eve twenty years ago cut through her mind. Sharp, painful shards of memories, glittering and jagged like pieces of glass, all stained red with the blood. Mama. Daddy. In their bed, red stains on the bed clothes, their eyes open and staring. And in the living room, the bodies of her brothers, strewn in front of the smoldering fire, their sightless eyes open and wide, their bodies covered in the same dark red, the Christmas tree toppled, the music, that continuous song playing over and over.
Gagging, she inched backward through the open door. The second she was on the stoop she couldn’t keep the meager contents of her stomach in place a second longer. Hanging on to the rotting porch rail, she heaved what little she’d eaten, bile and vodka hurling into the deep snow near the porch.
Merritt was dead.
Murdered.
And the killer . . . ?
Nervously, her heart trip-hammering wildly, she glanced at the surrounding woods, felt the kiss of cold wind on her cheeks.
Had she heard footsteps? Did she catch sight of a shadow darting behind the pines?
Oh, Jesus.
Frantic, breathing hard, she searched the forest, eyes straining against a curtain of snow, heart clamoring in terror as she saw shadows moving between the trees.
Was he here?
Was he watching?
Lurking and biding his time and staring at her and gripped tightly in his fingers? A long, bloody blade.
Was it a knife?
Or maybe a machete?
Or an antique sword, like before?
She was backing up, fear sizzling through her bloodstream. One hand was in her pocket as she scrabbled for her keys. She had to get out of here. She had to get out now! Stumbling, she clambered down the steps.
Then she ran.
Through the drifts of snow.
Cold air slapped at her face.
Snow blinded her.
Fear propelled her ever faster.
Just like before.
CHAPTER 12
Her gloved fingers scraping the door handle of her Jeep, Kara bit back a scream and scrambled inside.
As the engine fired, she hit the gas, reversed crazily, then rammed the Cherokee into drive and took off. Freaked, her insides quivering, the image of Merritt lying in his own blood kaleidoscoping with vibrant pictures of her own slaughtered family. Mama. Daddy. Donner. Sam Junior. All dead. Blood surrounding them. Red spray on the walls. Staining the carpet. Smeared on the handrail of the stairs. And now Merritt . . .
“Oh . . . oh . . . no . . . no!”
Get a grip. For God’s sake, Kara, pull yourself together!
But she couldn’t.
She was shaking and hyperventilating and out of her mind. Tree branches scraped at the sides of her SUV, screeching along the glass as the tires slid and she twisted on the wheel, the entire Jeep bucking over a ridge of ice.
Calm down. Calm the hell down.
Get control of yourself!
Frantic, the horror she’d witnessed screaming through her mind, she drove by rote, pressing on the gas where the rutted tracks ran straight, braking around curves and trees, feeling the entire chassis shimmy as she hit potholes, keeping her foot pressed hard to the gas.
She thought of Celeste at the salon, believing her husband was ignoring her. Not dead. Not murdered! “No . . .” She blinked. Tears were running from her eyes. She took a corner too fast and slid onto the bridge, the back wheels fishtailing. She didn’t care, just drove as if Satan himself were chasing her.
You have to call someone. The police. Let them know. Or Celeste. Dear God, Kara, the killer could still be in that mobile home. Didn’t you think you heard someone?
“Oh, God, oh, God . . .” Did she have Wi-Fi up here? A connection. She reached for her phone, still on the passenger seat. A tree loomed in front of the Jeep and she cranked hard on the wheel. The phone skittered onto the floor! Out of reach.
Shit.
Then she got her head together. “Call nine-one-one,” she yelled at the dashboard, and prayed for a connection as the snow came down faster and she increased the speed of her wipers.
She heard the phone ring at the other end of the connection.
Thank God.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergen—”
“He’s dead. I think . . . I know he’s dead. There’s blood everywhere.” Just like before! “Oh, Jesus!” she murmured under her breath, then, getting a grip, becoming a little calmer, “Just listen. I want . . . I want to report a murder. It looks like a damned murder! Merritt Margrove, the attorney. He’s the victim. Someone killed him. I mean, it looks like it. Send someone!”
“Ma’am? Can I get your name and your location?”