Six Killer Bodies

Six Killer Bodies by Stephanie Bond

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Authors: Stephanie Bond
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her dead friend.
    But she didn’t have to go out of her way to be so nasty. At
    the club auction, Tracey had made a big deal out of the
    fact that her important husband, Dr. Frederick Lowenstein,
    had to leave the event to deliver a baby. The woman used
    her husband’s position as a social lever, and she wielded
    her power maliciously. Carlotta wondered if Tracey
    overcompensated because deep down, she knew her
    husband was a lecherous cad. Or maybe she was just in
    complete denial.
    Carlotta pursed her mouth. Not that she herself was such a
    great judge of character—hadn’t Michael’s gruesome
    betrayal taught her that? Jack had once told her that
    everyone was capable of murder, given the right
    circumstances. Which meant that anyone walking around
    this mall, the people she came into casual contact with
    every day, could be harboring horrible, secret
    compulsions.
    She slowed and hugged herself as people passed by her on
    all sides. Irrational fear seized her. She glanced at their
    faces, wondering which ones contemplated horrible acts
    at this very moment, and which ones harbored dark
    fantasies that might erupt as a result of some random
    emotional trigger.
    And conceding that, according to Jack, there was the
    tiniest possibility that after years of working with the dead
    and avoiding the living, Coop’s random emotional trigger
    had somehow been tripped.

    11
    Wesley parked his bike next to Liz Fischer’s garage and
    slowly walked toward her guest house, where they always
    met to screw. His balls had their own memory because
    they tingled with anticipation, but his stomach was tied in
    knots.
    Sure, having sex with Liz guaranteed fifteen minutes of
    pure physical pleasure. But he kept thinking about Meg
    and the way she’d fussed over the raggedy flowers he’d
    bought her and the daisy she’d put in her hair, and it left
    him feeling…torn. Like he shouldn’t sleep with Liz, that he
    should—he grimaced—save himself or something.
    Christ, he was turning into a wuss over a girl who probably
    just felt sorry for him after he’d unloaded his whole sad
    family saga on her.
    It was stil early, around seven, but the low-hanging clouds
    made it seem later. Shadows encroached as he walked up
    to the French doors of the guest house and knocked.
    When Liz didn’t answer, he peered through the door, but it
    was dark inside. Then he noticed a note taped to the glass.
    Come to the back door of the house.
    He frowned, then peeled off the note and headed across
    the manicured grass in the direction of the main house.
    He’d never been inside Liz’s home, and he wondered why
    tonight was any different.
    Liz’s brown brick house was tucked into an older,
    expensive community. The dwel ings weren’t huge, but
    they were al well-appointed with guest houses and pools,
    and situated for maximum privacy. Thick trees shielded
    him—and Liz’s other lovers, he presumed—from prying
    eyes. A curving concrete walk led up to the back door,
    flanked by tiered planting beds and pots of geraniums. He
    had trouble picturing Liz getting her hands dirty, but he
    supposed the woman had a life outside of her job, and
    gardening was tres chic these days.
    He stopped at the back door and pressed a button that
    sent a little buzzing sensation through his finger. The half
    caplet of Oxy he’d just chewed made everything vivid and
    experiential—the weight of humid night air on his neck,
    the shriek of horny crickets in his ears, the sharp scent of
    evergreen bushes in his nostrils.
    The door swung open and Liz stood in the threshold
    wearing chinos and an untucked button-up white blouse,
    holding a drink. A pang of disappointment stabbed him
    that she was dressed at all, but compared to what she
    typically wore, her outfit was a little dowdy. Her blond
    hair, commonly coiffed into a French twist, was loose
    around her shoulders. Her face was free of makeup,
    making her look softer…and a little old.
    Suddenly he relaxed—it was a

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