CHAPTER ONE
The news must have severed her mind, shearing it free from her body and its actions. How else could Lauren return, her movements as smoothly automatic as a robot’s, to filling the dog’s water bowl and loading the dishwasher, the same mundane tasks that had been interrupted by the ringing of her father’s old corded phone almost an hour earlier?
The same tasks begun before the police detective had told her…
Stomach lurching, she forced herself to swallow. To gulp back the tears, the rage, the raw grief that threatened to consume her.
The knife and fork she’d used last night slipped from her hand, clinking into place in the silverware basket. The spoons came next, spoons she’d used to stir the milk into her coffee, to lift the cereal to her mouth…
Had Rachel tested the pistol’s weight in her hand while Lauren sat eating breakfast? Had there still been time then, time to make a call that could have distracted her or cheered her up, preventing her from pressing the muzzle to the silky, wheat-blond temple that Lauren had so often stroked when her younger sister was small?
As the kitchen clock’s black hands ticked off another minute, a stark image filled her mind: Rachel’s beautiful, long hair soaked with blood, her skull blown open, and her face shattered into jigsaw pieces.
The horror of the thought sent the teaspoons clattering to the kitchen floor. Dumpling, the plump, gray-muzzled dachshund Lauren had rescued from a roadside a few days after leaving her California home to pack up the old farmhouse where she and her sister had grown up, bolted from the room, her tail tucked between her stumpy legs.
“It’s all right, girl,” Lauren called, though it would never be all right again. How could it be if Rachel—? Her throat knotted with the thought.
Maybe, Lauren thought, she should try calling her sister’s cell one more time. Her last two calls had rolled straight over to voicemail, but maybe Rachel had decided to start her weekend early and had gone out to a Friday morning movie or the gym or somewhere instead of work at the hospital admissions department where she’d been employed the past three years. With her phone turned off, Rachel would never know about this awful mix up. Would be horrified to learn that someone had mistakenly told her sister she was dead.
When the doorbell rang, Dumpling reappeared, then charged over to bark with all the gusto she usually reserved for eating.
Too overwhelmed to deal with anyone, Lauren turned away, but instead of giving up, the visitor rang the bell again and pounded at the door, feeding her small protector’s frenzy.
“Settle down,” Lauren managed. Her command ignored, she scooped the struggling little sausage up in her arms and shushed her into silence.
When another knock came, Lauren called, “Not interested,” certain it must be someone peddling religion or selling vacuum cleaners. It wasn’t as if she’d reconnected with any old classmates who might have stuck around her North Texas hometown, and her few neighbors along the rural road outside of Bright’s Prairie never stopped by unannounced.
But then again, neither did solicitors. Then who—?
“FBI, Ms. Miller.” The person on the other side answered her unspoken question, the voice deep and masculine and ringing with authority. “I need to speak with you about your sister.”
Lauren’s hand was trembling so hard, she fumbled with the lock. Maybe he’s here to say the call was a mistake. A wrong number or a cruel prank. She didn’t care which, as long as Rachel was alive.
Heart racing with the surge of hope, Lauren opened the door and peered at a tall, solidly built man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, despite the swath of clouds. Wind ruffled neatly trimmed, dark-brown hair frosted with silver, and the tips of both his nose and ears had reddened, proof that the forecast blue norther had brought the cold Canadian air mass well into Texas after all.
“Ms.
The news must have severed her mind, shearing it free from her body and its actions. How else could Lauren return, her movements as smoothly automatic as a robot’s, to filling the dog’s water bowl and loading the dishwasher, the same mundane tasks that had been interrupted by the ringing of her father’s old corded phone almost an hour earlier?
The same tasks begun before the police detective had told her…
Stomach lurching, she forced herself to swallow. To gulp back the tears, the rage, the raw grief that threatened to consume her.
The knife and fork she’d used last night slipped from her hand, clinking into place in the silverware basket. The spoons came next, spoons she’d used to stir the milk into her coffee, to lift the cereal to her mouth…
Had Rachel tested the pistol’s weight in her hand while Lauren sat eating breakfast? Had there still been time then, time to make a call that could have distracted her or cheered her up, preventing her from pressing the muzzle to the silky, wheat-blond temple that Lauren had so often stroked when her younger sister was small?
As the kitchen clock’s black hands ticked off another minute, a stark image filled her mind: Rachel’s beautiful, long hair soaked with blood, her skull blown open, and her face shattered into jigsaw pieces.
The horror of the thought sent the teaspoons clattering to the kitchen floor. Dumpling, the plump, gray-muzzled dachshund Lauren had rescued from a roadside a few days after leaving her California home to pack up the old farmhouse where she and her sister had grown up, bolted from the room, her tail tucked between her stumpy legs.
“It’s all right, girl,” Lauren called, though it would never be all right again. How could it be if Rachel—? Her throat knotted with the thought.
Maybe, Lauren thought, she should try calling her sister’s cell one more time. Her last two calls had rolled straight over to voicemail, but maybe Rachel had decided to start her weekend early and had gone out to a Friday morning movie or the gym or somewhere instead of work at the hospital admissions department where she’d been employed the past three years. With her phone turned off, Rachel would never know about this awful mix up. Would be horrified to learn that someone had mistakenly told her sister she was dead.
When the doorbell rang, Dumpling reappeared, then charged over to bark with all the gusto she usually reserved for eating.
Too overwhelmed to deal with anyone, Lauren turned away, but instead of giving up, the visitor rang the bell again and pounded at the door, feeding her small protector’s frenzy.
“Settle down,” Lauren managed. Her command ignored, she scooped the struggling little sausage up in her arms and shushed her into silence.
When another knock came, Lauren called, “Not interested,” certain it must be someone peddling religion or selling vacuum cleaners. It wasn’t as if she’d reconnected with any old classmates who might have stuck around her North Texas hometown, and her few neighbors along the rural road outside of Bright’s Prairie never stopped by unannounced.
But then again, neither did solicitors. Then who—?
“FBI, Ms. Miller.” The person on the other side answered her unspoken question, the voice deep and masculine and ringing with authority. “I need to speak with you about your sister.”
Lauren’s hand was trembling so hard, she fumbled with the lock. Maybe he’s here to say the call was a mistake. A wrong number or a cruel prank. She didn’t care which, as long as Rachel was alive.
Heart racing with the surge of hope, Lauren opened the door and peered at a tall, solidly built man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, despite the swath of clouds. Wind ruffled neatly trimmed, dark-brown hair frosted with silver, and the tips of both his nose and ears had reddened, proof that the forecast blue norther had brought the cold Canadian air mass well into Texas after all.
“Ms.
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