Almost Dead by Lisa Jackson Page A

agility, Coco launched herself onto the bed and settled on Cissy’s pillow. “Oh, no. Not a prayer.” Cissy pushed the tiny beast onto Jack’s side, where Coco circled about a million times before settling into the spot formerly occupied by the man downstairs.
    How pathetic was that? She and this little dog on a bed that suddenly seemed an acre across.
    She slid between the sheets and picked up a book, then, after reading the same paragraph three times without remembering a word, tossed the paperback onto the nightstand and clicked off the light. Coco was already snoring contentedly, but Cissy stared up at the dark ceiling.
    The police really thought her grandmother had been murdered.
    During the very week her mother had escaped from prison.
    She shuddered, drew the covers up around her neck, and glanced out the window, where the streetlight illuminated a spot on the sidewalk. No police car was outside, but the rain beat steadily, slashing downward, and for a second, just half a heartbeat, she thought she saw someone standing outside that watery pool of light, a dark, smudgy apparition that could have been a person in a dark coat, or a figment of her imagination.
    A frisson of fear skated down Cissy’s spine, and her heart nearly stopped.
    You’re imagining things.
    But she slid out of the bed and, in the darkness, walked to the side of the window, obscured by the curtains, peering out into the damp night. Lights from neighboring houses should have made her feel more secure. Jack being downstairs should have made her feel safe.
    Her fingers wound in the sheer curtains as she squinted into the night.
    There’s no one there. Look…there’s nothing.
    But she swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and resisted the urge to call out to Jack.
    She thought about Marla as she stared at the spot where she felt she’d seen someone lurking.
    Where was she?
    Here?

Chapter 6
    The couch wasn’t made for sleeping.
    It was fine for sitting on.
    Great for watching television.
    Perfect for making out.
    But sleeping all night, no way.
    Jack woke with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t dare go upstairs and wake his wife, so he walked into the small bath off the foyer and cleaned his teeth with some of the soap from the dispenser and his finger.
    He thought about making a pot of coffee and carrying it up to Cissy, maybe even finding a fake flower and placing it between his teeth in an effort to make her smile, but thought better of it. Part of their deal was that he would leave before she awoke. Cissy was not a “morning person” and was still too pissed at him to even think about forgiving him. He walked into the kitchen, ground some beans for coffee, found the filters, and poured in a carafe of water. With a press of a button, java was on its way.
    Just as the first fragrant drips were working their way into the pot, his cell phone jangled. He flipped it open and spied his sister’s name and number. Not a good sign. He almost didn’t answer, but knew that wouldn’t stop her. Jannelle—tall, blond, and five years older than Jack—had been a print model before opening her own school for girls who were on the fast track to the runway. She was tunnel-visioned to the nth degree and relentless when she wanted something. If she was calling at six in the morning, it wasn’t just to say hello. She had to be on some damned mission.
    “Hi, Jannelle,” he said in a whisper so as not to wake his wife, child, or the yappy dog.
    “What’s this about Cissy’s grandmother being murdered?” Jannelle demanded.
    That was Jannelle, never one to sugarcoat anything. “Good morning to you too.”
    “You know about this, right? It’s all over the news! Jesus, Jack, did someone really kill Eugenia Cahill?” She sounded nervous, anxious. He heard her breathe in hard, then the distinctive sounds of her lighting a cigarette, though she’d quit smoking a good six months earlier.
    “That appears to be the current line