Happily Never After. Kathleen O'Brien

Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter One

      The scream woke her.

      It sounded muffled at first, as though she were wearing protective earmuffs, as she did on the firing range. But then it became more intense. Shrill. It penetrated through to her bones, and made her shudder.

      She opened her eyes. Was that a shadow disappearing through the far door? She blinked and it was gone.

      The scream sounded again. She had to turn her head to locate its source. The movement was an effort…and it hurt! She gasped out loud at the terrible pain.

      A woman stood there. She wore a light blue dress that appeared to be a uniform. She held towels in her arms.

      At least she had stopped screaming. Now the woman just stood there, her face a ghastly shade of white, staring. And then she mumbled something and ran out the door.

      What was happening? Where was she? A bedroom—but whose? She tried to sit up, but a wave of pain and nausea made her stop. She moaned, holding her head. Why did it hurt so much?

      She smelled something, then—ugly and metallic and familiar. Blood. Her blood? She pulled her hand away from her head. It was sticky. Red. She was bleeding. She swallowed a rising wave of panic, took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Audibly.

      She would be fine. She had to be.

      But the odor…it was so strong. Whimpering, she forced herself—slowly, carefully, painfully—to sit up. She leaned backward on her elbows, unable to pull herself totally erect. The effort was simply too much.

      Again she forced open her eyes. Only then did she notice what she was wearing: a gown. White, lacy, a fairy tale…bridal gown.

      A bridal gown?

      The fairy tale had clearly gone sour, for the white was stained red. Blood. A lot of it.

      Hers? She didn’t think so; only the side of her head hurt, and blood from a head wound would not have gotten to the front of her skirt that way.

      But if not hers, then whose?

      She sat higher and pulled her legs under her. The movement was excruciating.

      She saw the source of the blood then. Probably also the cause of the woman’s screams.

      Beside her, on the floor, lay a man. His clothing, too, was formal: a tuxedo, or so she thought. It was hard to tell, for he was covered in blood. His hair was gray, she noticed that, for his face was only a few shades lighter. His eyes were open. He stared sightlessly toward the ceiling.

      “Are you all right?” She heard the hysteria in her voice, even as she realized the absurdity of her question. The man beside her, whoever he was, was clearly dead.

      JORDAN DAWES didn’t wait for the hotel elevator. He didn’t wait to see if anyone followed him. He ran down the musty-smelling stairway, taking the steps three and four at a time. He thought he heard other rushing footfalls behind him, but it didn’t matter. He continued to run.

      The call had come in on the hotel security radio. A maid had found a couple of bodies in a room on the third floor. Security had called the police.

      They hadn’t had far to call. Nearly the entire police force of Santa Gregoria, California, was on the hotel’s top floor, celebrating a wedding.

      He reached the third floor and shoved open the door to the hallway. Which room was it?

      A maid stood at the end of the hall, sobbing hysterically. She was being comforted by another uniformed woman.

      “Where?” Jordan demanded.

      The woman pointed with a shaky finger. “Room Three thirty-s-seven,” she stammered.

      The door was slightly ajar. Jordan automatically grabbed his 9 mm Beretta from its holster beneath his formal black coat, held it primed and ready with the barrel pointed upward, and kicked open the door. The only response was silence.

      He carefully edged around the door frame, alert, ready to defend himself if necessary. Ready for whatever might be waiting…or so he thought.

      Nothing could have prepared him for what he found. “Sara!” he exclaimed. “Casper. What the—damn!”

      On the floor, covered in blood, lay the obviously lifeless body of Casper Shepard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria. Jordan nevertheless bent to check his carotid pulse. There was none. He scowled in helpless rage.

      Beside Casper sat his daughter, Sara. She was trembling. Her head was bowed. Her white wedding gown was stained with blood.

      “Why did you leave the reception?” Jordan demanded as he reached her side and knelt, ignoring the stiffness of his tuxedo trousers. “Tell me what happened here.” He knew, of course. He just hadn’t expected anything so soon. And certainly not here. He was afraid to take Sara into his arms. Was she injured?

      “I don’t know,” was her only reply to his questions. Tears cascaded down cheeks as smooth as the finest porcelain. Their paleness contrasted starkly with the lovely raven color of her upswept hair. Her lips—full, pink lips that had smiled at him so teasingly only a short while earlier—trembled as her white teeth gnawed at them nervously.

      “Are you hurt?” Jordan carefully touched her arms, her legs, trying to determine if any of the blood was hers or if it all came from her father.

      “My head,” she said.

      He took her gracefully tapered, trembling chin in his hand and gently turned her head to the side. Only then did he see the ugly red seeping against the blackness of her hair. He sucked in a breath.

      He noticed from the corner of his eye that they were no longer alone in the room. Others from the wedding party, members of the Santa Gregoria police force, had joined them. “Get the medics here right away!” Jordan demanded. He turned back to Sara. “We’ll get you help right away…sweetheart.” He glanced at June Roehmer, a policewoman who knelt on the floor on Sara’s other side.

      “Has she said anything?” June asked as though Sara wasn’t even there. “Did she tell you what happened?”

      “Not yet, but she was just about to. Weren’t you, honey?”

      “Honey?” Sara blinked her enormous, soulful hazel eyes at Jordan. “Is that…is that my name?”

      He stared at her. And then he stifled a smile. “No, it’s Sara.” He wanted to throw his arms around her, even laugh—though without mirth. She had to be the smartest woman Jordan had ever met. “You don’t remember your name? How about what happened here?” He made a point of asking in front of June. If Sara gave the right answer, word would get around: she didn’t recall who had killed Casper. Had hit her. Had most likely run away when the maid interrupted—but who probably had every intention of silencing the sole living witness, Sara.

      But if Sara pretended she didn’t remember, it would buy them time. The killer wouldn’t feel compelled to act quite so fast. They could set up a trap—another trap.

      He wanted to kiss Sara. He’d already discovered that