As Darkness Fell. Joanna Wayne

way. This time she did, slinking into the nearby bushes and throwing up everything but the lining of her stomach. When she finished, the young cop who’d tried to stop her earlier was standing right behind her.

      “Must have been something I ate,” she said.

      “Yeah. I almost did the same thing when I saw the victim.”

      Almost. Meaning he hadn’t. She was obviously green, both literally and figuratively.

      “Are you all right now?” he asked.

      “I will be in a minute. What’s the story on the dead woman?”

      “There isn’t one yet.”

      “Who found the body?”

      “Not sure, but whoever it was called the TV station. They were here before the cops, which is why Sam’s fit to be tied. Probably the most brutal crime to ever hit Prentice, and his crime scene is compromised.”

      “Is he in charge of the investigation?”

      “He’s the head of homicide. Makes sense he’d head up this one.”

      “What’s his last name?”

      “Turner.”

      Detective Sam Turner. The name seemed familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the man before. He might be irritating, but he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget. More intimidating than handsome, but rugged—and brawny enough that a woman had to notice.

      “I hate to run you off,” the cop said, “but Sam gave orders to clear the area of reporters.”

      Yeah, especially the “broad in stilts.” She nodded and started back in the direction of the gate. Only, she made a turn at the last minute when she realized no one was watching her, took a deep breath to calm her stomach and rattled nerves, then walked back to the body. This time when she got there, she started snapping pictures, though she imagined they’d be too gory to run in the morning paper.

      Detective Sam Turner appeared from nowhere and stuck his hand in front of her lens. “I hope there’s a very good reason why you’re still here.”

      “I’ll be writing an article for tomorrow’s edition of the local paper, and I have a couple of questions.”

      “Oh, well, let’s just forget the killer and try to get you a story.”

      She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you have any suspects?”

      “Hey, Turner,” someone called from an area beyond the immediate crime scene. “Come take a look at this.”

      “Be right there.” He turned back to her. “I don’t have a suspect or a motive or even an identification of the victim, and I don’t give a damn what you write in your little article. I do care that some woman was sliced up like a slab of meat, so if you’ll get out of my way, I’d like to find out who did the carving.”

      “Should the public be concerned that…”

      He turned and walked away as if she were a pesky fly not even worth swatting.

      But he had told her what she needed to know. There were no leads and the victim was as yet unidentified. Slim, but she could stretch it into a front-page story, especially if any of the pictures were publishable.

      This was no doubt the most macabre murder to hit quiet little Prentice in a long, long time. Maybe since forever. She’d have to call her boss the minute she got to the car and tell him to hold her a spot on the front page.

      The Prentice Times was a small-town daily and John Rhodes, both editor in chief and managing editor, had a very hands-on management style. He’d want to see every word of this story before it went to print.

      According to the lore of reporters, she should be experiencing some kind of rush right now. But all she felt was a queasiness deep in her gut and a nameless dread that seemed to reach clear to her soul.

      She’d write the article, and every parent who picked up the morning paper would feel a knot of fear when they read it. Those who didn’t know where their daughters were would become sick with worry.

      This was some career she’d chosen—or that had chosen her. A frightening, challenging, dubious hell of a career.

      COPS, TV CAMERAS, reporters. What a show. And down to a man—and woman—they’d recoiled at their first glimpse of the body. But they stayed and stared, soaking up the sight of gore as if they couldn’t get enough.

      They were wondering, no doubt, how it felt to actually wield the knife, imagining the frisson when the first blood spilled from her body. They envied him. Not that they’d ever admit it. They considered themselves above such cravings, but he knew better.

      They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.

      He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress. She was doing her job, but it was clear she was getting no respect. Sam Turner thought this was his game, but he was wrong. He’d find that out soon enough. They’d all find out.

      Murder by murder by murder.

      Chapter Two

      It was ten minutes before midnight by the time Caroline had finished at the newspaper office and made it back to her house. As she’d expected, John was thrilled that she’d managed to get few pertinent details and a couple of usable pictures of the cops working the crime scene. He’d stood over her while she’d written the copy, making suggestions and asking questions, but when she’d finished, he’d told her what a great job she’d done.

      She was tired, but the images from the murder scene stayed with her, replaying like a video in slow motion as she showered, brushed her teeth, then rummaged through her bureau drawer for something soft and satiny to sleep in. Lingerie was her one indulgence, a side effect of the years she’d had to wear nothing but functional cotton that could take lots of wear and harsh bleaches and detergents.

      Tonight she slipped into a pair of pink silk pajamas with a matching robe. But even that didn’t calm her mood. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine and carried it with her as she roamed from one room to another. She loved the historic old house better all the time, even though the rent was a tad more than she could actually afford.

      Sure the floors creaked and moaned and the ancient plumbing rattled, but the house had character and personality. It had seen weddings, births, countless celebrations—and deaths. It almost breathed stories of the past. So if a few spirits remained, who could blame them?

      But she doubted any of the former inhabitants of the Billingham house had ever seen anything like the brutal murder she’d covered tonight. Caroline wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold and filled with a kind of nebulous apprehension, then climbed the creaking, winding staircase. The second-floor hallway was wide and high-ceilinged, and contained the furniture her landlord had left. A Queen Anne sofa so faded and stained, it was impossible to decipher the original color. An antique chest with spindly legs and broken pulls. A wavy wall mirror, bordered in tarnished silver, ornately embellished as if made for a queen.

      And her favorite, a marred and stained secretary that had been made in France and shipped to America just before the Civil War. She’d found that out from records still stored in the secretary itself.

      Caroline dropped onto the sofa and pulled her feet up beside her. Leaning back, she stared at the gold-framed portrait that hung above the staircase. Even at this angle, the eyes in the portrait seemed to be looking right at her.

      “Things have changed, Frederick Lee. Time is no longer passing by your peaceful Southern town. History and modern macabre have now officially merged.”

      Finally she gave in to the burning pressure of her eyelids and let them close. Her subconscious took over, forming new images out of gruesome reality.