The Night Before

“Adam,” Caitlyn said, and her voice sounded unnatural, even to her own ears. “There’s something you should know. I don’t think I’m crazy—I mean, I pray that I’m not, but . . .”

“What is it?”

“Strange things have been happening. Not just to the family, but to me specifically. Aside from the bad dreams, I have flashes of memory or a sense of
déjà vu
about certain events, things tied to some of the ‘accidents’ that have occurred. I remember flashes, little glimmers that don’t make a whole lot of sense.” Closing her eyes, she plunged on. “The morning after Josh was killed, I woke up and . . . and there was blood all over my bedroom. I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”

“You think you killed him?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t remember. But the police are saying that my blood type was at the murder scene and then there was blood all over my room.”

“What do you remember?”

She explained everything that she could. “I think I’m cracking up. I think I should go to the police, but I’m afraid to. Detective Reed already has me pegged as his number-one suspect.”

“Do you think you’re capable of murder?”

“No! Of course not! But I don’t know what to think. And that’s not all. I feel that I’m being watched, and I don’t know if the police have set up a surveillance of my house or if someone sinister is stalking me . . .”

 

SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW

 

Anthony Paterno/Cahill Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD

 

Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS

 

Pierce Reed/Nikki Gilette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER

 

Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

 

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Bucky Burnsed, Public Information Officer for the Savannah Police Department, who helped point me in the right direction. He was invaluable in answering my many questions and pointed out where I’d made some errors. Unfortunately, I had to bend the rules, setting and procedures for the purposes of this book just to make the story work.

Also, as ever, there are a lot of people who helped me in the writing of this book. Some helped with research, others with reading, others with office work and still others with emotional support.

Thanks to Nancy Berland, Kelly Bush, Nancy Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Ian Kavanaugh, Arla Melum, Ken Melum, Ari Okano, Betty and Jack Pederson, Sally Peters, Robin Rue, John Scognamiglio and Larry Sparks. If I’ve forgotten anyone, my sincere apologies. You’re all the best!

His head was thick, his mind muddled.

His eyes swam.

He couldn’t move.

His thoughts were disjointed and jumbled. Out of sync.

Something was wrong . . . horribly wrong.

If only he could think. If only he could concentrate beyond the pain slicing like razors in his brain.

He tried to force the words, but his tongue wouldn’t work and he couldn’t make more than a hideous mewling sound as he lay slumped over his desk . . . at least he thought it was his desk. Blinking with difficulty, he tried to focus, but there was little light and the darkened images were blurry, as if he were looking at the world through a foggy wide-angle lens.

How had he gotten here?

He couldn’t remember, but he sensed that he’d just woken up. . . .

No . . . that wasn’t right . . . he’d come in here to do some paperwork . . . yes . . . and then . . .
and then what?

Caitlyn.
This was about Caitlyn and the divorce! But why couldn’t he move his hand? Or his leg? Or . . . or any damned part of him? Panic surged through him. He tried harder. Not one muscle budged.
Jesus H. Christ, what was happening?

Music was playing. Soft classical. Baroque. Something he didn’t recognize oozing through the hidden speakers surrounding the room.

What the hell was going on?

So why the hell can’t I fucking move?

Alarm tore through him and yet he felt a great lethargy, as if he might succumb to the darkness playing at the edges of his eyesight. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he couldn’t lift a hand to wipe the drops away. Behind him, he heard a footstep . . . or thought he did. Good. Someone was here to help him.

Or . . . not.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Adrenalin pumped wildly through his bloodstream.

Try as he might, he couldn’t turn his head. Why? Was he sick? Drugged? Dreaming? Nausea gripped his stomach. How did he get this way? What had he done? Who the hell was behind him?

No one. There’s no one there. No one
evil,
for Christ’s sake. You’re freaking out. Get ahold of yourself!
The phone! If he could just reach the telephone and dial 911 . . . But his arm wouldn’t move. His muscles were heavy . . . unresponsive.

“Josh?”

His heart jolted but his body didn’t move.

The voice was hushed. Disguised? Or was that his imagination?

Again he strained to turn his head.

Again he failed.

“Josh? Can you hear me?” Soft. Seductive. And deadly.

Someone was calling to him. Maybe someone had come to help, to rescue him. But his hopes died instantly. If someone was going to help him, they would have rushed over. The whole situation was too damned weird. If someone truly was with him and not a figment of his imagination, then it was an enemy who had found him.

Cool fingers touched his wrist. Inwardly he jumped. Outwardly he didn’t move.

Who the hell was touching him, rubbing the inside of his arm? Checking for his pulse? Did he look dead? He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t raise it off the desk to twist his neck and see who was tending to him just out of focus in his peripheral vision. A doctor? Oh, please, God.

Suddenly an intense light was flashed into his eyes, as if someone was examining him, checking for dilation. Desperately he attempted to make out an image, to see around the brilliance burning its way into his brain, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was holding the penlight. But there was no visage, just a foggy image of fingers encased in examination gloves and the faint tinge of cigarette smoke.

The penlight clicked off. Darkness surrounded him, and his vision was worse than ever. Bright rings of illumination still seared through his brain. He slumped lower on the top of the desk and an empty glass toppled, falling onto its side and rolling off the desk to land on the carpet with a soft thud. The cool fingers massaging his wrist didn’t stop, but he could barely feel them, hardly stay awake.

I’m alive, you idiot, can’t you se that? Get me to a hospital!
But the words were lodged in his throat; he couldn’t force them out, couldn’t make his tongue work. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock in the foyer, the whisper of the wind blowing through the French doors he’d left ajar and the beating of his heart. But instead of wild and frantic, his heart was as sluggish as his head, not jackhammering in fear as he would have expected. Maybe this was a dream after all. It was all so surreal. As if in slow motion.

He noticed that his shirt sleeve was being pushed up his forearm by those gloved fingers. Higher the linen rode, exposing more of his arm. What the hell? Rolling his eyes backward, he hoped to make out whoever was with him, but he saw only shadows and movement, a dark figure and . . . a glint of something. Steel.

The blades were razor thin. Two of them. Scissors.
Surgical scissors?
But . . . but . . . Fear jetted through his bloodstream. Desperately he tried to move his arm. His feet. Any damned part of him, but he couldn’t wriggle away, was forced to lie with his head on the desk to await his doom.

And doom came in the form of a shadowy figure with scissors.

This was crazy. Who was this person? What was with the scissors? Nothing good.

He heard a clip and saw a button fly off his cuff.

He nearly soiled himself.

His shirt sleeve was pushed higher, exposing his arm, his bare arm. He saw his white flesh, caught the glint of the blade.

His heart nearly gave out.

The scissors neatly clipped a single hair from his forearm.

He jumped. But only on the inside. His nerves were flashing, but not connecting. He couldn’t pull his arm away, could only watch as the scissors moved closer to the veins and arteries that webbed just beneath the skin. A part of him didn’t care. Another part of him was silently screaming in panic.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

The voice was so familiar. Obscenely provocative.

He couldn’t speak.

“You can think of me as Atropos.”

“Oh. That’s right. You probably don’t know about the three fates, do you? In mythology, there were three women who determined your fate. The daughters of Zeus were called the Moirai. Three sisters who determined a man’s destiny.”

Mythology? What the hell?
The scissors winked in the light from the desk lamp. He shivered inside.

“There’s Klotho, of course. She’s the youngest and she spins the thread of life while the middle sister Lachesis is the measurer. She selects one’s lot in life and determines how long that life will be.”

The scissors came closer, their sharp point touching the skin beneath his eye.

He tried to flinch but remained as if cemented to the desk.

“Then there is Atropos. The strongest. Who actually ends the life by snipping that precious thread.” She clicked the scissors. “The name I chose.”

The scissors bit at the flesh of his cheek, touching his eyelashes.

He felt nothing. No pain.

She held up his bare wrist.

The first welling drops of red blood rose to the surface.

Oh, God, no!
Desperately he tried to jerk away. Succeeded only in grunting. Couldn’t even cringe as the evil weapon took another nasty little bite, blood smearing the blade, fear jolting through him as he realized that the person he couldn’t see was determined to slowly and methodically kill him.

This couldn’t be happening! It had to be a dream. A nightmare. What demented person would do this? Oh, God . . . blood was flowing freely now, down his wrist and into his palm, running down his fingers to pool on the desk.
Stop! For God’s sake, stop!

Maybe this was just to scare him, maybe he wasn’t going to die. Maybe someone was just making a cruel point. God knew there were enough people in this town who wanted him dead.

But a gunshot to the head would have done the trick.

Or a pill slipped into his drink.

Or a knife in his damned heart.

Unless his would-be killer was enjoying this . . . that it wasn’t so much his death as his dying that mattered. Unless the sick bitch got off on the knowledge that he was helpless as he watched his own lifeblood trickle and spurt from his body. Gasping, realizing that he would slowly bleed to death, Josh moved his eyes to the glass humidor located on one corner of his desk. In the smooth, curved surface he saw his own pale reflection and just the hint of a figure, grotesque in the distorted glass, leaning over him.

For a second, his eyes locked with those of his attacker. He saw the face of his killer. A suggestion of a smile, the hint of satisfaction curved his murderer’s lips.

All hope fled.

He recognized the warped face, and he realized with heart-stopping clarity that he was condemned to watch himself slowly bleed to death.