By Love Betrayed

By Joanna Wilson

A woman lies face down in the kitchen of a Bucks County home belonging to her friend and coworker Maureen Doherty. A knife is embedded in her back. She is discovered by Maureens niece, Shannon Mulcahy. Shannon is frantic believing the victim is her adored aunt until she sees the woman is a stranger. But who is she? Why is she in her aunts home? Who killed her and why?

Maureen had found the womans body earlier and fears that she knows the killer. Though once lovers, her court testimony helped to convict him of an earlier crime and send him to prison for life. But has he escaped? If so, has he come back to even the score.? Fearing for her life she disappears.

Shannon is drawn into the drama of the womans death and her aunts disappearance. The police believe Maureen is guilty but Shannon thinks not. She has a retiring personality besides which she is plagued by grand mal panic attacks. Nevertheless, she decides to find her aunt. But how do you find someone who doesnt want to be found?

She is overwhelmed as circumstances spin crazily around her. In over her head, she asks her friend Kelly, who has assisted police in the past, to help her. They learn a bed and breakfast in upper Bucks County may serve as Maureens hiding place. Although driving the River Road is challenging, Shannon goes in hunt for the B&B unaware she is being watched.

Shannons deepest fears are realized when she is harassed, threatened, hounded and eventually placed in harms wayall because the culprit believes she knows her aunts whereabouts. Storm clouds dot the horizon. On the road, she is overtaken and kidnapped. Bound in the back seat of a car, she knows her life and death are up for grabs. She has grown from her encounters. But is it enough to diffuse this turn of events that threaten to escalate out of control?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477291771

Joanna Wilson

Joanna Wilson draws upon her academic background in film history and philosophy to create insightful commentary on pop culture of all kinds. She is the author of two books, Tis the Season TV: the Encyclopedia of Christmas-Themed Episodes, Specials, and Made-for-TV Movies (2010) and The Christmas TV Companion: a Guide to Cult Classics, Strange Specials, and Outrageous Oddities (2009). A lively and engaging speaker, she has appeared in two television specials as a commentator on Christmas entertainments. In 2010, she appeared in The Real Story of Christmas (2010), and the TV Guide Network's 25 Most Hilarious Holiday TV Moments (2010). As an expert on Christmas TV movies, Wilson was invited to moderate the cast reunion for a screening of the 1971 TV movie The Homecoming: A Christmas Story (1971) in December 2011. The cast reunion for the 40th Anniversary of The Homecoming included members of the much-beloved TV series The Waltons. Wilson writes a regularly updated blog about both popular and rare Christmas entertainments. She publishes a daily Twitter post of Christmas programming airing on TV. She is at work on her third book, which highlights Christmas music as seen in television episodes, specials, and movies, due to release for the holidays in 2012.

Book preview

By Love

Betrayed

Joanna Wilson

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2013 by Joanna Wilson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9176-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9178-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9177-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921809

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

About The Author

Acknowledgements

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They say the first born takes the longest to enter the world.

That may be so for books, as well. Either I was too stubborn to give up or too dumb to take a hint. Either way, I finally finished it.

My thanks to (retired) Police Chief David Schultz, Upper Southampton Township, Bucks County, to Montgomery County Private Investigator Don McIntrye, to Christopher Klim,

writer and teacher, without whose help this book wouldn’t exist. Sissy Pizzillo, artist and friend who traveled the road with me.

And to my husband who vanquished my doubts with the admonition that everything else can wait its turn.

For my husband who tolerated late nights and late suppers

Tom—Now

Tommy—Then

To that light at the end of the tunnel—

May it always be there!

Oh, what a tangled web we weave

When first we practice to deceive.

Sir Walter Scott

Chapter 1

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S omething didn’t feel right to Shannon as she approached her aunt’s darkened Bucks County townhouse from the driveway. Her aunt had lately taken to leaving lights on when she was away from home. So, why wasn’t the crystal fringed lamp lit that sat in the center of the picture window?

On the patio, she fit her key into the lock only to find the door already unlocked. Her aunt never left the house without locking every door. Should I call 9-1-1? she wondered. Yeah, right! And when the police find nothing out of the way, I’ll look like a fool.

She flipped the foyer’s light switch that lit the ceiling chandelier in the living room—and stood there too stunned to move. Upholstered chairs and carpeting lay, slashed, on the parquet floor, silverware and linens and pillows lay strewn about.

She trembled as reality hit her. A break-in! In this upscale part of Bucks County? Who’d guess? Now she’d call 9-1-1.

But where is my aunt? The unspoken words sounded like a scream inside her head. This is her home, her things. Is she lying somewhere hurt, bleeding? This is a home invasion. Well, Shannon, you think?

She headed for the wall phone in the kitchen unable to turn off the shivers that shook her body. Rounding the corner she turned on the wall light and stopped. A woman lay face down on the floor, blood pooled under her, a knife in her back.

Shannon gagged and tried to scream but it came out as a strangled cry. Oh my God! No, no, no. Aunt Maureen! Please, you can’t be… Her stomach pulled apart. Tears streamed down her face. You can’t leave me, she cried aloud. You know you’re my inspiration, my… my guidance counselor. More than even my mother, you’re…

She saw a ragged slash of blood along the back of the dark green wool coat that her aunt still wore. Should I pull out the knife? She stepped closer as cold sweat tracked along her spine. God, what should I do? I can’t handle this.

Her skin turned clammy as that prickling sensation she knew so well forked its way through her body. Another panic attack on its way. She grasped the cold granite countertop, hoping it would ground her as nausea gathered inside her. Usually, nothing outside of her impeded an oncoming attack. But strangely enough, her breathing had become even.

If I could see her face, she thought, I’d at least know if she’s… who she is. But who else? The coat is my aunt’s. That deep brown-red color of her long hair couldn’t belong to anyone else. This is my aunt’s home, her kitchen…

Then the unthinkable popped into her head. Could he, the killer, still be here? Wouldn’t he have shown himself by now? Oh, damn it, I should have called the police before this. Maybe if I ran next door, Mrs. Nicholson would call.

Then from behind her came the words, Stay where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them. His voice sounded gritty and hard.

Are you going to kill me too? she blurted.

Turn around slowly. Keep your hands raised.

Her chest ached from what felt like a truss wrapped around her. Why didn’t I run when I had the chance? Thirty years old, Shannon, and you still can’t act responsibly. Always waiting. For what?

She turned. He wore a black leather jacket and held a gun. With his free hand, he pointed to a silver-tone badge on the front of his jacket. Police. Who are you?

Relief gushed through her. His name tag read J. Clarke, followed by a badge number. The patch on the jacket’s arm read Birches Glen Police Department. She wondered how the local police department learned about this. She hadn’t called. She took a shaky breath. I’m… I’m her niece. Shannon Mulcahy. I just got here. Well, a few minutes ago. I found her. She’s… she’s not dead, is she? She could still be alive, couldn’t she?

He studied her, turned to the woman on the floor, then back to Shannon who clutched the collar of her black pea coat. He motioned her to stay put with his open palm. His leather jacket crackled as he strode toward the woman and knelt beside her. After holding his fingers at her throat, he muttered into a transmitter something like  . . . have a DCDS at 10 Cabbage Rose Lane in the borough. He stood and faced Shannon. I’m sorry. His voice had lost its gruffness.

I just talked to her. Earlier tonight. She took another step, but Clarke held out a restraining hand. She’s gone. I’m sorry. Come, sit down over here.

He gently guided her toward the pine kitchen table where he pulled out a chair.

It’s gonna get busy very soon. Best you stay here, out of the way, until you can handle things better. There’ll be questions. I’ll have the EMT’s check you. It’s good that you called us.

I didn’t call you.

He glanced at her then jotted a few words in a pocket notebook. Once seated, she felt that creeping threat of nausea again.

Are you all right?

I think I’m going to…

He removed a tube from his pocket and swiped it under her nose. Breathe in. Then lower your head between your legs.

Just as her stomach began to settle, she heard a rush of sound. Looking up, she saw Clarke talking to another officer and a man in plain clothes. He wore a brown trench coat with its flannel collar at attention. A gray-haired red-cheeked man carried a black bag and walked toward the body. Three emergency medical technicians carrying gear followed him.

Seeing them, her trembling worsened. I can’t go on without you, Aunt Maureen, she thought. There’s no one to take your place, no one who cares in the same way, who gives so much of herself…

She pulled her coat tighter and crossed her arms on her chest. Cutting a glance toward the dining room, she saw the same destruction; ruby-color carpet and padding slashed, upholstery ripped from chairs, pricey miniature wood carvings that her aunt had collected for years on the floor, expelled from the china closet that had housed them, canvasses ripped from their frames. What had this monster been looking for? Who is he? Certainly no acquaintance of my aunt.

She watched Clarke, tried to read his lips, as he spoke to the trench-coated man who lobbed glances toward her. After hearing him say  . . . it’s the doc’s scene now, she watched him make his way toward her.

Hi. Ms. Mulcahy, is it? I’m Detective Steve Kendall. He flipped open a leather wallet that held his identification. How are you holding up?

She shrugged. Was she holding up? She didn’t know.

It’s rough, I know, he went on. It would be hard for anyone to deal with this tragedy, let alone a relative. I know it’s bad timing, but could you answer a few questions? The sooner we get some information, the sooner we can start the investigation.

He was tall, six feet, she guessed, with brown hair. Light coloring with blue or hazel eyes that seemed quiet and composed—the eyes of a thinker. His mouth was thin-lipped with a smile always ready to appear. He seemed to be maybe thirty-five, five years older than her.

She rocked back and forth, hugging herself. I… don’t know anything more than what I told that officer. I… just came in and found her.

Kendall nodded. "And you are… ?

Her niece.

Then you’ve identified her?

She balled up the fabric of her sleeves in her hands. Well, no. But who else?

Kendall regarded her searchingly. You said you didn’t call the police? There it was again, that same question. No, she hadn’t, she said. Someone must have. But who?

The officer… Officer Clarke asked me that, too. I started to call just before he arrived.

If you could make a formal identification, it would help us begin the proceedings.

She looked away, tears starting. She’s my aunt, not… the proceedings.

He bit his lip. I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. That was insensitive of me. The technical stuff always slips in. I’m sorry. I apologize.

By now, the people walking the rooms seemed to her to move in slow motion, speaking in hushed tones, brushing table surfaces with powder, placing things in small brown paper bags. A photographer took pictures.

What… you mean… look at her up close?

He nodded. She shook her head. I can’t do that. I’m sorry, but I can’t. She was the dearest…

Her lips quivered. Identify a dead woman who’s always been there for me? And never would be again? No future. No present. Just past.

She saw the gray-haired man open his bag, then motion to the technicians. They formed a circle around the body. Shannon’s stomach lurched. Who is he? What’s he doing?

He’s the county coroner’s pathologist. Either he or an assistant is present at all homicides or suspicious deaths. He needs to get a body temperature to help fix the time of death.

Panic gripped her again. This is all a mistake, she thought. It’s someone else’s nightmare, not mine. Her mouth felt like sand, the corners splitting painfully. The detective motioned to Clarke who, a minute later, brought her a glass of water. She took it gratefully.

Detective Kendall took her free hand. I know this was an awful thing to walk in on. And I guess these questions seem… intrusive, insensitive. And I’m sorry. But they’re necessary, as you must realize. We have to learn as much as we can in the first few hours while information is fresh in everyone’s mind. His voice had softened. Are there any other relatives?

The water tasted cold and delicious. She swirled it around in her mouth, then wet her lips. My other aunt. I don’t know where she is. She left… years ago. And my mother. My mother! How would she react to all this? Cool and collected, as usual? Or would she finally show emotion.

Kendall opened his notepad. Can you tell me why you’re here, Shannon? Do you mind if I call you by your first name?

She shook her head, hunching into herself. For a long time, we’d meet on Fridays after work. It’s an end-of-the-work-week observance. Usually pizza and wine. She smiled, remembering her aunt’s zero tolerance of winter. I thought she’d cancel because of the weather. She hates to drive in this. She nodded outside to the light snow still falling. But she didn’t. She said she had something to go over with me.

He scribbled on his pad. How has she been lately? Anxious? Stressed? Anything out of the ordinary?

Lately, she’s been nervous, jumpy.

The detective pulled out a chair and sat down leaning over the back, facing her. Go on.

She’s always ‘up’, you know? But lately… she wasn’t herself, I guess.

The detective scribbled. Did you ask her about it?

She blamed it on the job. She leaned toward him. He wore a musky scent. She owns a full-service beauty salon. Busy all the time, but she enjoys it. I hoped tonight she’d tell me what’s been bothering her.

She pressed a fist against her chin. Detective, please, I have a throbbing headache. Can other questions wait?

Of course. The chief will want to see you and your mother in the morning. You’ll have a statement to go over.

Tomorrow’s Saturday.

Homicides don’t care about weekends. Shannon, can you try for me? He motioned to the sheeted form on the floor. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. My aunt’s laughter—gone forever. Her off-key humming. Flea markets, Mall-hopping, eating Chinese on the living room floor. Gone. Only… remembered. She shook her head. Please… understand. She was… I loved her dearly.

Kendall took her hand. Shannon, we deserve more than a Jane Doe ID. Our identity doesn’t end with our death.

She cried openly for a few minutes then finally agreed. He took her arm. Lean on me. His voice was close to her ear.

The pathologist lifted the sheet and raised the woman’s shoulder just enough to expose her face. The knife still lay in place. Shannon stood quietly and stared.

Chapter 2

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M aureen Doherty, owner of the full-service hair and beauty salon near Lahaska, Bucks County, had been ready to end her day an hour earlier. But she couldn’t say no to Sally, a young stylist at the salon, who asked her to do a blow-dry.

It’s my first date with this guy, Maureen, and he’s a real hunk. I don’t want to look messy, you know? Maureen, in her fifties, could remember her youthful dates—until the man came along. Then the dating game was over. Along with her life.

It had been a busy day—perms, touch-ups, and ‘do’s for winter proms—enough, thankfully, to keep her emotional concerns at bay. With both the last client and Sally satisfied and on their way, Maureen retrieved her tan raincoat and hat from the closet behind the reception desk. The hands of the small decorator clock on the desk showed it was after six. Thought so, she said.

What’s that? Gina asked. Besides being a stylist, Gina worked as assistant manager.

My stomach told me it was dinner time. I didn’t have time for lunch. A few crackers and coffee.

The lightly-falling snow had continued through the day. As a soft snow, would driving cause her difficulties? Driving in any kind of snow presented her with problems—which she’d have to deal with later. For now, Maureen thought, Gina’s eyes were boring into her back. Like a bulldog with a bone, she thought. I want to confide but you’re knowing about it wouldn’t help either of us. And might be dangerous for you.

Maureen, you sure you’re all right?

Gigi, I’m fine. She put her arms into her coat sleeves. You’re a worry wart. Stop it, already. She glanced at the appointment book. You have an eight o’clock tomorrow? I thought…

Gina clicked her tongue. Maureen, stop that. Stop changing the subject. I’m worried about you. You’ve been distracted for weeks. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed it. I wish you’d talk to me. We’ve shared before.

Gina took her job at the salon seriously. And at home, as well. At thirty-two, she’d recently become a mom, probably amplifying her natural-born Mother Hen tendencies, Maureen thought.

Oh, how I want to tell you. You’d understand, I know. But it would take more than a sympathetic ear to make things better, to make him disappear. Somebody has to be helping him, but who?

She touched Gina’s arm lightly. Honestly, sweetie, nothing to talk about. We’re busy, you know that. And I get uptight…

Maureen, you thrive on being busy. Why are you shutting me out? We’ve known each other… how long? You’ve never done that before.

The less you know, the better off you are. You work with me. That could be detrimental for you. Shutting you out? Gina, I’m doing no such thing. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Okay, maybe I am a little… distracted. But the reasons are simple.

She tied the soft belt of her coat with a flourish. We’ve been busy this month but our receipts don’t reflect that. I’ll have to go over the books on the weekend, check for a discrepancy.

You’ve been so distracted lately… Gina thought.

And then there’s Shannon. Talk about being distracted… something’s bothering her. We’d planned to get together tonight for pizza and wine, just like any other Friday. But with this weather, I cancelled it. You know her, thinks plans are written in stone. Naturally, she got bent out of shape over that. She thinks her Pathfinder can go through rock. And she can be tedious to be with…

Why? I’ve never thought that about her.

She keeps her real self hidden most of the time. Sees herself as boring company. Her low self-esteem makes it hard for her to recognize her own talent. I have to keep buoying her up.

She knew her words hadn’t convinced Gina. They wouldn’t convince her, either. Now, she gathered her long hair with both hands, tucked it under her hat, and pulled the hat low on her forehead. Flinging a burgundy-colored wool scarf around her neck, she headed for the door. The quicker she got out, the less time Gina had to pose more questions.

By the way, she said, at the door, Ceil will be late tomorrow. She’s putting her car in the shop. They promised her she’d have it before eleven. You know how that is. If not, they’ll provide a loaner. If one’s available. At any rate, she’s booked for a color at eleven. If that loaner doesn’t come through, I’ll bring her in since I’m not booked until noon. Now, stop worrying. Everything’s fine. Trust me. Okay?

Gina made a face. Yeah, okay. Sure. Until next time.

Stopping at the bank in the same strip mall, she deposited the week’s receipts then headed for her snow-coated Buick. The drive to her townhouse on Cabbage Rose Drive normally took about fifteen minutes. Tonight, it would take that and longer just to clean off the car.

Once on her way, the monotonous thwack of the wipers and the warmth from the heater made her feel lethargic. She even found herself nodding at times. She opened the window a crack, glad to see that the snowfall had lessened. Letting her mind unbend, she thought how pleasant a mini-vacation would feel, a weekend on the Pocono slopes. It would serve as a respite from… things. She’d ask Shannon to go with her. Even Gina. Let Tony bond with the little guy.

She smiled, thinking how far she’d come in five years with the shop. Hair… and More. Her shop, her baby. It had been a struggle. At first, two stylists provided limited service. Now, seven stylists attended to hair styling, beauty treatments, nails, pedicures, personal color evaluation, and even accredited massage therapy.

What does he want? He’s where he can’t hurt me. Though lately, I’ve been feeling… no, I’m not going there. Still, he can get what he wants if he sets his mind to it. He found my address. How? Has he learned the truth? How?

The clock on the dash read six-twenty. Ceil was taking her turn at grocery shopping, so she’d be a little late. Good idea—alternating schedules to give each other a breather. I’ll chill a bottle for supper. Afterwards, we can relax with some television. Or some music tapes.

She pulled to a slippery stop in front of her corner unit rather than chancing the slick driveway. Clutching her coat collar against the icy wind, she tiptoed over the coating of ice that covered the 50 by 100 foot lawn. As she grew closer to the house, she felt a sudden edginess. She looked around. Nothing remotely suspicious. Suspicious? And I called Gina a worry wart! For God’s sake, Maureen, don’t start imagining things that go bump in the night. Chill out. She smiled to herself. Perfect weather for it, too.

Thick silence that accompanies a snowfall always made her doubly conscious of sounds around her. Footfalls are softer, therefore potentially threatening, dogs seem to bark more, maybe in their protective mode. The full moon’s eerie spotlight coupled with the yellow glare from the street lamp made her surroundings look ethereal.

She stopped abruptly on the snow-coated brick foot path, her heart caught in her throat. I know I left that lamp on when I left. I always do. She’d left the porch light burning, too. She felt sure she had. She’d been leaving it on every morning since his letters began arriving. Now, the house sat in total darkness. Could I have forgotten? With all that’s on my mind? It’s possible. Ceil leaves after me and she’s as good as her word. But she could have… nobody’s perfect.

She shivered as she recalled his last words to her. She wanted to forget them. Instead, she’d remember them without provocation. When they came back to her, she longed to be someplace safe. But all she could do now is get inside and out of the cold.

The pathway continued around the side of the house, leading to the back entrance off the raised deck. But tonight the freezing snow had made the pathway a menace. Better to enter from the front. The pole light offered good light… but had she left that on?

Why can’t I remember? What’s going on with me?

Inside, she lit the foyer chandelier. In the living room, she reached for the wall switch. Nothing. Oh, damn it! I forgot about that burned-out bulb. But what about the dining room chandelier? And the fluorescent light over the range? I left them on, I know I did. And now…

Unless Ceil… Maybe she got the loner car, stopped home, then left for shopping, forgetting to turn on the lights. She knows how keyed-up I get when the lights aren’t on. If that’s the case, Ceil, you’re going to hear about it!

She made her way well enough in the dark though she bumped against some furniture and felt a tug of fear. Why would she do that? she wondered. She knew the location of every piece. Reaching the table next to the chintz-covered loveseat, she switched on the Tiffany-style lamp. And fell back, clasping her hand to her mouth to shut off a scream. Oh my God, no. Why? Why?

The room lay in shambles.

Furniture pieces askew. Carpet and padding slashed. Chair pillows, sofa cushions, and wall canvasses slashed. Everything piled in the center of the floor, bon-fire fashion.

A prickling sensation raced along her spine. Her legs started to buckle. This is a nightmare, it has to be. Wake up, Maureen. Wake up now.

But she didn’t wake up. Instead, feeling as though she walked in slow motion, she continued into the dining room, trying to swallow past the knot in her throat. Switching on the table lamp sent her blood pounding in her throat at the same wanton damage to her personal things.

God, it can’t be him. But… who else? And why… this? Revenge wasn’t his style.

This is nothing less than… rape of my home. Maybe… this is a random break-in. Maybe.

The police! Call them, she thought, before her knees buckled. She had to call them. Where the hell’s the phone? In the living room on the end table. But it isn’t there now. The kitchen! Maureen, just get to the damn wall phone and stop dawdling.

With hands cold yet sweaty, Maureen felt around on the kitchen wall for the ceiling light switch. When the room came alive with light, she let out a wrenching scream. She saw in numb, unrelieved horror a body on the floor, her face and the top half of her body lying in blood, a knife in her back up to its hilt. She swayed and leaned into the wall grasping it for support.

Thoughts jumbled in her head as she looked at the body. One thought, however, did come through. He’s after me. I know that now. He’s after me. He’s killed… her death was meant to be mine.

Panic like a closed fist slammed into the pit of her stomach. Did she dare go upstairs? Could he still be here, watching her, enjoying her helplessness? Okay, Maureen, where is your cool-headed, unflappable, self-possessed self when you need it? You know where it is? It’s nowhere. It’s nowhere because it’s all a fake… well, most of it is. A role learned because I had to survive. And now I have to do it all over again.

She turned to the dead woman, so miserably cold and alone, and tears began to dim her vision. She bent down. Ceil, not you. You didn’t deserve this. I would do anything to be there instead of you. Her tears fell as she touched the body, knowing there would be no pulse, knowing her friend’s skin would be stiff and cold, her own fingers almost as cold.

She held Ceil’s lifeless hand. Hal, you bastard! she screamed. You bastard. She was starting over again, a new life, a new vision. You cut her down. You killed her when she was just getting on her feet. Oh my God, my God…

But he had to have known Ceil wasn’t her. He didn’t do spontaneous things like that. Leaning back on her haunches, she threw back her head, keening. You’ll pay, Hal. God will damn you to hell. I damn you to hell. Her cries became sobs, the pain gut-deep. Rocking back and forth, she held Ceil close to her, getting blood on her coat. I’ll see you dead for this, Hal. I promise you, one way or another, I’ll see you dead.

She knuckle-blotted her eyes. She knew what she had to do. She ran upstairs to the bedroom. Underwear, pajamas, and toiletries—in one suitcase; slacks, tops, sweaters in another. It was still snowing and driving up county filled her with dread. But she needed time—to think, to make decisions.

In the kitchen, breathing in fits and starts, soaked with perspiration, hands and clothing sticky with blood, she searched through a countertop recipe file discarding file cards until she found the one. She pocketed it. Then she dialed 9-1-1.

I… I want to report finding a body. she said with rising hysteria gaining a foothold. She gave the address but not her name. She stood by her friend again, holding her hand. Ceil, I swear to you, he’ll pay. She switched off the light. Forgive me for leaving you.

Filled with pain she knew would last forever, she locked the door and left.

Chapter 3

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S hannon? Are you all right?

The pathologist had brushed aside the dead woman’s hair to allow Shannon to see her face. If not for her chalky-gray complexion, the woman lying there could be sleeping. With relief, Shannon turned to Kendall. She isn’t her.

She isn’t… are you saying this woman isn’t your aunt, Shannon?

No. Yes. I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t know who she is.

His tight smile predicted the coming work to finding the woman’s identity. It’s okay. You did your part. This woman didn’t live here, then?

"No. This is my aunt’s home. But I don’t have a clue why this woman was