Authors: Jenn Black
Belatedly turning on her blinker, Lori merged onto
the highway.
Every day, she found herself thinking, “Wait until I
call Sara and tell her–” before she remembered she was never going to call her.
Never going to hear her sister’s voice again. Ever.
Lori turned on the radio and punched her pre-set
buttons. Commercials.
She might have a radio commercial too someday if she
ever started that talent agency. Kimber accused her of being all talk and no
action. Doubted she’d even picked a name. Lori hated being read so easily.
She flicked off the radio and sighed.
Playboy magazine? Not the end of the world, but also
not for Lori.
A centerfold spread might be jumping the shark for
some people and jump-starting a flagging career for others, but Lori didn’t
want to reclaim her supermodel status.
Lori exited the highway and headed toward the
residential neighborhoods.
She wanted to help people, give guidance, be her own
woman. She wanted to start over. With her life, with her family, and with
Kimber.
Starting now.
Lori pulled onto her street and parked her car
across from her house. She unlocked the trunk and withdrew the blue box
containing beautiful pearl earrings.
Kimber never stayed angry for long. And even if she
still harbored hurt feelings, Kimber was a sucker for earrings.
Lori didn’t mind not playing fair if it meant
getting her best friend back.
She jogged up to the door and tried the handle.
Locked. Good girl.
With a smile, Lori retrieved her key and made her
way inside. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it on the couch before
turning on a light.
The sliding glass door stood wide open.
Kimber– no. She wasn’t even going to mention it. She
was here to make up.
If Mr. Giggles had to pee outside like a wild cat,
then Mr. Giggles had to pee outside like a wild cat.
From the back bedroom, a game show audience cheered.
She grinned. Kimberley claimed to hate game
shows—claimed she only watched situational comedies. Lori would have to tease
her about this one.
“Kimber? I’m home. I brought you something.”
No response.
Had she fallen asleep?
Lori stepped into the room. TV images fluttered
eerily across the bed, and at first Lori didn’t recognize what she was seeing.
When reality permeated her horror-struck brain, she dropped the box of earrings
and started screaming.
Blood covered the bed. Slime covered the pillows.
Kimber wasn’t moving.
Half her face was gone.
Lungs seizing, Lori fumbled for the cell phone at her
waist. It clattered to the hardwood floor. She crumpled and slapped her hands
around to find it, terrified to turn on the light.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Where was the stupid thing?
Okay. Here. Lori flipped it open and blinked at the bright display. 911. Ringing…
come on. Answer.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
For a horrible moment, Lori couldn’t speak. She
didn’t have an emergency—she had a tragedy. Kimber, dead. It was too late. She
was too late. Again. How could this be happening?
“Are you there, ma’am? Do you have an emergency?”
“I– yes. This is Lor– I’m– My best friend is dead. I
can’t think. I don’t know what happened. Her face– Kimber’s face– no. I can’t.
Send someone. Please.”
Somehow she made it through the rest of the
conversation.
She picked herself up off the floor and forced her
shaking limbs to stumble out of the bedroom and down the hall without looking
back. As if the flickering image of Kimber’s shattered skull wasn’t indelibly
stamped on her brain.
Oh no. No no no.
Lori stepped outside, leaving the front door wide
open and no longer caring. What did it matter? What did anything matter without
Kimber?
Kimber had come to Lori for unconditional love. And
what had Lori done? Argued with her and stormed out of the house. That’s right.
What a good friend. Kimber needed her to protect her broken heart, and Lori had
left her alone to die.
To die!
Lori collapsed in the middle of her walkway, half on
a stepping-stone and half in the wet grass.
Kimberley. Without her, Lori would never have made
it through geometry. Through life.
No.
Lori stared straight in front of her, eyes open but
unseeing. Nobody knew Kimber was here—not even Marco. Someone had killed Kimber
because they wanted to kill Lori. Someone was after
her
. Tommy might
have been shot for the same reason! Lori’s head reeled.
Everybody around her died.
Her dad. Her sister. Her best friend. Even Tommy.
She barely had anyone left. All she had to do was reach out, and bang. Loved
ones dropped like flies.
She was a black widow. She was cursed. And there was
nothing she could do.
Lori heard the sirens before the first of the
flashing lights careened around the corner. Police cars. An ambulance. A fire
truck. A fire truck? Lori twisted around to glance at her house. Not on fire.
That’s the one calamity she hadn’t yet caused.
She did her best to answer questions, but the
faceless officers and nameless technicians seemed to be speaking from the other
side of a deep void. One by one, they left her alone and went inside.
Another car screeched around the corner and pulled
in front of her house.
The passenger door flung wide and a hugely pregnant
woman struggled out of the seat. Lori hoped she didn’t give birth on her lawn,
just in case her death-curse now encompassed people she barely knew.
The driver door opened and a tall form loped around
the rear. Even with the sirens blaring and the red-and-blue lights blinding
her, Lori recognized the masculine, take-charge silhouette.
He was probably here to arrest her.
* * *
“Jesus,” Carver said with a disgusted sigh. “They
left her in the grass.”
Throat suddenly clogged, Davis couldn’t speak.
Lori sat unmoving, her long skirt riding up and a
lost expression on her face. Pale knees jutted forward, leaving her legs tucked
underneath. Head down, shoulders bent, her arms lay limp in her lap.
He was by her side in less than a second, kneeling.
“Lori.”
Her eyes were the only movement. Huge and glassy,
they peered at him as if he had all the answers. He had nothing.
“Lori, listen,” he tried again and faltered. He laid
a tentative hand on her shoulder. She didn’t react. “What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Carver tried to kneel down and almost toppled over.
Giving up, she straightened and said, “Try. Start from the beginning.”
Lori jerked her head up as if startled to hear
Carver’s voice. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“Do you want to stand?” Davis asked. If only he
could touch her.
She nodded.
He looped his arms under hers and drew her closer.
She shivered, her skin damp. Cold. Davis hugged her to his chest as he pulled
her to her feet, then stepped away.
She still stared at Carver.
Carver glanced at Davis. He shrugged. No doubt Lori
was still in shock.
“Did you just get home?” he asked Lori as she
clutched her arms around her middle.
Still looking like a small, lost child, her head
dipped in a slow nod.
“Where were you before?”
“At the mall,” she answered. Her once-spiky hair lay
plastered to her head.
“By yourself?” he asked.
She nodded again. “I bought earrings for– for
Kimber.”
Carver’s voice turned gentle. “And you came home…”
“I came home and went inside.”
“Was the door locked?”
“Yes. No. The front door was locked, but the sliding
door was open for Mr. Giggles.”
Carver glanced at Davis again. He met her blank gaze
with one of his own.
“Who is Mr. Giggles, Lori?” he asked her.
“A cat.” Lori jerked toward him and tugged the front
of his suit. “You have to find him! Cripes. I didn’t see him. Where is he? The
door was open… I left the other door open, too… if anything happened to Mr.
Giggles, I’ll… I’ll…”
Davis covered her freezing hands with his hot, dry
palms. “I will.” He returned her arms to her sides and turned toward Carver.
“Will you stay here with her?”
Carver shot him a scathing look. “Of course.” She
wrapped an arm around Lori’s trembling shoulders.
A cat. Shows how flaky memory could be. He’d have
sworn she was allergic to cats.
Davis made his way to the front door and stepped
into the house. Technicians and uniforms swarmed everywhere. He recognized Bock
across the room and motioned him over.
“First to the scene?” Davis asked.
Bock looked slightly ill, his young features twisted
into a grimace. “Yeah.”
“The vic?”
“Dead female. Purse on the dresser ID’s her as
Kimberley Jackson, twenty-eight, local resident.”
Davis nodded. “Wound?”
Sweat tinged Bock’s brow and he swallowed. “Wounds,
plural. Shot several times, they said probably from down the hall.”
Interesting. The killer was close, but not too
close. Why not? Would Kimberley have recognized him? Been suspicious? Fought
back?
“Where?” Davis asked.
Bock wiped his nose with the sleeve of his uniform.
“Everywhere. Two to the face, one to the neck, three to the chest. Cause of
death could be any of ’em. All of ’em. Hard to say.”
“Ammo?”
“9mm.”
Same as the Turner case. Maybe coincidental, maybe
not, but Davis was a cop. Cops don’t believe in coincidence.
Nonetheless, he’d keep that information between
himself and Carver. And their report, of course. If any of the Crimestoppers’
tips mentioned the link between the killings without reporters splashing the
connection all over the news, they’d know they were onto something.
“Go on outside, Bock.”
“Thank you.”
Davis hoped Bock made it out back before vomiting.
Somewhere along the line, someone had flicked on
every single one of Lori’s lights. Probably for documenting the scene—photos
would be worthless in the dark.
Davis walked along the perimeter of each room,
cataloguing the scene in his mind.
Hardwood floors, no rugs. Spackled ceilings,
overhead fans. The living room contained a large black sofa, a matching leather
recliner, and a flat screen TV.
A double row of shelves stretched along the walls,
right about eye level. Both were filled with blown-glass figurines. Palm trees,
ballet dancers, roses. No dust.
He drifted into the kitchen.
Sliding glass door, open. Bock outside, puking.
Grass, orange tree, no privacy fence. Davis turned away from the backyard.
Not a spoon was out of place, but the kitchen stank
like wet cat. Had to be the work of the mysterious Mr. Giggles.
Davis stepped over to the table and leafed through a
small handful of envelopes. Mostly bills and you’ve-been-pre-approved junk.
Guess Lori’s mail wasn’t any more exciting than his.
The shiny metallic refrigerator hummed to life.
Photos littered the front panels, attached with
alphabet magnets. Strange. The five-by-seven on the freezer door hung cockeyed.
Davis stepped closer and pulled it down.
Lori and Sara, smiling and swimsuited. Lori sported
a tiny black bikini. Sara hid in a flowery one-piece. They stood ankle-deep in
sand, outer arms clutching fluorescent surfboards and inner arms around each
other’s shoulders.
Man, that funeral had been rough.
Bad enough he hadn’t seen Lori in years. Sara was
his age, had been in some of his classes. Not the art classes—Sara wasn’t like
that. She was about as opposite her sister as possible. No, Sara had been in his
block classes—History, Science, Algebra.
Nonetheless, the girls had been inseparable.
Davis put the photo back on the fridge and headed
for the hallway. Most of the action was at the end of the hall, which led into
a bedroom.
The door on his left opened to a shell-themed
bathroom. The door to his right opened to an office. Davis stepped inside.
No tchotchkes in here.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the walls, each
row packed with neatly lined books. Paperbacks, this shelf. Hardbacks, that
shelf.
Davis looked closer.
How to Start Your Own
S-Corporation
.
Modeling
in the New Millennium
.
The Entrepreneurial Spirit
.
Home Based
Business for Dummies
. Lori was many things, none of which implied
stupidity. She’d always been one to underestimate herself.