death. And through it all, she heard nothing but the gleeful laughter of a vicious monster.
Until she heard no more.
Chapter Nine
Patrick was exhausted and frustrated when he let himself into his parents’ front door after six o’clock that night. Five hours at the police station being grilled by the Angel Killer task force, to no avail. They were no closer to figuring out the connection between him and the serial killer than when he walked into the station with Jack this afternoon.
All he wanted to do was pop the top on an ice cold beer and kick up his feet. But that wasn’t an option tonight. He had to relieve his office manager, Jane, who’d been babysitting Rachel and Amanda since picking up Rachel from the hospital before lunch.
Who was he kidding? He was looking forward to taking over babysitting duty. Just thinking about seeing Rachel released the taut line between his shoulder blades.
The aromatic smell of marinara sauce drifted through the house and teased his nose. His last meal had come from the food truck that morning and he was suddenly starved. He followed the smell to the kitchen where he caught sight of his office manager hanging up the phone on the wall. She stared at the receiver, unmoving for a moment, her shoulders bowed, then with a deep sigh, she reached for a pile of chopped onions on the cutting board and scraped them into a large, steaming pot.
After this screwy day it was so good to see Jane, more friend, than employee, doing something as normal as cooking. He heard her sniff back a tear as she picked up a large, stainless spoon and stirred the pot. He grinned. “Mom always did say you can tell how good a sauce is by how many tears are on a cook’s face.”
Jane whirled from her task so fast the stirring spoon splattered bright red sauce across the blue-and-white kitchen tiles. “Patrick!”
“Oops! Sorry!” He raised his hands in self-defense and flashed an apologetic smile at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I guess you didn’t hear the beep after I disengaged the security system when I came in the front door.”
“I-I—” Jane’s hand hovered over her heart.
Patrick’s smile disappeared when he saw her face blanch. Dammit! He’d scared the woman into an angina attack. He rushed across the room to her side and helped her to a stool at the central island. Taking the dripping spoon from her tight fisted hand, he tossed it onto the countertop. “Where are your pills, Jane?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on her face.
“I already took one,” she said, bursting into tears.
Stunned—he’d never seen Jane cry except for the day she buried her daughter, Suze’s mother—all he could do was fuss over her until he found out what was wrong. There was more going on here than his unexpected arrival. She was antsy as a sparrow perched on an exposed electrical wire.
He patted her shoulder. The tissue box on the counter was empty, so he snagged a paper towel from the marble spindle on the island and tucked it into her restless hand. “Tell me what I can do, Jane,” he said helplessly. “Did you get bad news on the phone?”
“Phone?” She stared at the wall, and then glanced quickly away. She waved a hand at him. “No. It was a…wrong number.”
Somehow he didn’t believe her, but unless she was willing to talk to him, he was at a loss what to do for her. He watched her sniffle into the paper towel. Then she blew her nose indelicately. When she looked him in the eye, her expression disintegrated and she started to cry again. “Sorry,” she choked out around the tears. “I haven’t been home,” hiccup, “in two days and, and, I-I-I’m just tired!”
He felt like a heel. He’d put too much on her shoulders, not thinking about what the extra work might do to her health. She’d been dry for nine years since coming out of rehab and going to work for him, but she’d been so liquored up for most of her adult life, her body had never
Until she heard no more.
Chapter Nine
Patrick was exhausted and frustrated when he let himself into his parents’ front door after six o’clock that night. Five hours at the police station being grilled by the Angel Killer task force, to no avail. They were no closer to figuring out the connection between him and the serial killer than when he walked into the station with Jack this afternoon.
All he wanted to do was pop the top on an ice cold beer and kick up his feet. But that wasn’t an option tonight. He had to relieve his office manager, Jane, who’d been babysitting Rachel and Amanda since picking up Rachel from the hospital before lunch.
Who was he kidding? He was looking forward to taking over babysitting duty. Just thinking about seeing Rachel released the taut line between his shoulder blades.
The aromatic smell of marinara sauce drifted through the house and teased his nose. His last meal had come from the food truck that morning and he was suddenly starved. He followed the smell to the kitchen where he caught sight of his office manager hanging up the phone on the wall. She stared at the receiver, unmoving for a moment, her shoulders bowed, then with a deep sigh, she reached for a pile of chopped onions on the cutting board and scraped them into a large, steaming pot.
After this screwy day it was so good to see Jane, more friend, than employee, doing something as normal as cooking. He heard her sniff back a tear as she picked up a large, stainless spoon and stirred the pot. He grinned. “Mom always did say you can tell how good a sauce is by how many tears are on a cook’s face.”
Jane whirled from her task so fast the stirring spoon splattered bright red sauce across the blue-and-white kitchen tiles. “Patrick!”
“Oops! Sorry!” He raised his hands in self-defense and flashed an apologetic smile at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I guess you didn’t hear the beep after I disengaged the security system when I came in the front door.”
“I-I—” Jane’s hand hovered over her heart.
Patrick’s smile disappeared when he saw her face blanch. Dammit! He’d scared the woman into an angina attack. He rushed across the room to her side and helped her to a stool at the central island. Taking the dripping spoon from her tight fisted hand, he tossed it onto the countertop. “Where are your pills, Jane?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on her face.
“I already took one,” she said, bursting into tears.
Stunned—he’d never seen Jane cry except for the day she buried her daughter, Suze’s mother—all he could do was fuss over her until he found out what was wrong. There was more going on here than his unexpected arrival. She was antsy as a sparrow perched on an exposed electrical wire.
He patted her shoulder. The tissue box on the counter was empty, so he snagged a paper towel from the marble spindle on the island and tucked it into her restless hand. “Tell me what I can do, Jane,” he said helplessly. “Did you get bad news on the phone?”
“Phone?” She stared at the wall, and then glanced quickly away. She waved a hand at him. “No. It was a…wrong number.”
Somehow he didn’t believe her, but unless she was willing to talk to him, he was at a loss what to do for her. He watched her sniffle into the paper towel. Then she blew her nose indelicately. When she looked him in the eye, her expression disintegrated and she started to cry again. “Sorry,” she choked out around the tears. “I haven’t been home,” hiccup, “in two days and, and, I-I-I’m just tired!”
He felt like a heel. He’d put too much on her shoulders, not thinking about what the extra work might do to her health. She’d been dry for nine years since coming out of rehab and going to work for him, but she’d been so liquored up for most of her adult life, her body had never
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