Read Online 15 Amityville Horrible by Kelley Armstrong - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelley Armstrong
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is long retired. Still alive? Maybe. He gets it, hides it, and after his death a family member finds it. When the call goes out for stories on Amityville, whoever has the letters decides it’s time to bring them out, maybe make some cash.”
Clay muttered something.
She spoke to him again. “Like I said, get back to us when you have a better theory. Until then—”
A clatter, phone falling. Elena retrieved it.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Flying pillow?”
“Yeah. I’ll pay him back later.” The sound of footsteps, as if she was crossing the room. A creak as she settled into Jeremy’s chair. “That’s all I’ve got. As for the killer, you have a sixty-year span between three murders. Not impossible if he started young and ended old, but that would be unusual. Real-world explanation? Father-son team, son faking the handwriting or getting Pops to write the last one. Supernatural explanation? Lots of possibilities there, none of them very plausible.”
“Vampires,” Clay said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard this time.
Elena made a rude noise in response.
“Could be,” Clay said. “Explains the timeline.”
“But not the stabbing. Beyond that? Demons, spirits, magic…the list goes on.”
It did. That was the problem.
…
When I got off the phone, Jeremy was still engrossed in his sketch. I watched him off to the side, so he wouldn’t notice. I’ve dated plenty of guys who, if they caught me looking, would have flexed and primped like a cover model. Jeremy was not one of them. He isn’t particularly shy; he’s just not good with direct attention.
He’d started undressing for bed. His shirt was off. His pants were mostly off, still on one leg, hanging over the edge of the bed, as if he’d been in the midst of removing them when he had an idea for a sketch. He was lying on the covers, which meant I had a very nice view of a very nice body. There’s nothing quite like werewolves for drool-worthy physiques. Even if, like Jeremy, they don’t work out beyond their weekly run on four legs, they have the kind of metabolism for which I’d seriously consider sacrificing virgins. Jeremy has a runner’s body, hard and lean and definitely worth some drool.
I slipped out of my dress, then crawled into bed on his other side, being careful not to disturb him. He seemed to have frozen there, only the scratch of his pencil giving him away.
I resisted the urge to reach up and brush the hair from his neck. There wasn’t much to brush anyway. Normally haircuts are one of those annoying necessities Jeremy skips as long as possible, but he’d gotten it done for my shoot. He always did, since a reporter once noticed him at one of my shows and used “bohemian” in her description. He decided that he was getting a little old for the shaggy look. I disagree. I love it when his hair gets a little long, dark locks threaded with silver, hanging boyishly in his eyes and over his collar. Sexy as hell. But if it makes him self-conscious on a shoot, I keep my mouth shut and wait for it to grow out again.
The stylist—or, more likely, the local barber—had left a bit in the back, just a small lock that curled up, as if trying to hide. I wanted so badly to tug it out. But I kept still, resting there, until the pencil scratches stopped. He lifted his head and looked around, then craned over his shoulder to see me.
“When did you finish with…?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I shifted up and leaned over him. “Can I see?”
He handed me the sketchbook without hesitation. I remember shortly after I met him, catching him drawing and asking to see it. He’d deflected and slid the book back into his bag before I could ask again. I’d been hurt by that. I’d come to realize, though, that I’d been rude to ask—it was a work-in-progress. He shared those raw beginnings only with his Pack, only if they expressed an interest.
This new sketch was of the twins, in a forest,
Clay muttered something.
She spoke to him again. “Like I said, get back to us when you have a better theory. Until then—”
A clatter, phone falling. Elena retrieved it.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Flying pillow?”
“Yeah. I’ll pay him back later.” The sound of footsteps, as if she was crossing the room. A creak as she settled into Jeremy’s chair. “That’s all I’ve got. As for the killer, you have a sixty-year span between three murders. Not impossible if he started young and ended old, but that would be unusual. Real-world explanation? Father-son team, son faking the handwriting or getting Pops to write the last one. Supernatural explanation? Lots of possibilities there, none of them very plausible.”
“Vampires,” Clay said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard this time.
Elena made a rude noise in response.
“Could be,” Clay said. “Explains the timeline.”
“But not the stabbing. Beyond that? Demons, spirits, magic…the list goes on.”
It did. That was the problem.
…
When I got off the phone, Jeremy was still engrossed in his sketch. I watched him off to the side, so he wouldn’t notice. I’ve dated plenty of guys who, if they caught me looking, would have flexed and primped like a cover model. Jeremy was not one of them. He isn’t particularly shy; he’s just not good with direct attention.
He’d started undressing for bed. His shirt was off. His pants were mostly off, still on one leg, hanging over the edge of the bed, as if he’d been in the midst of removing them when he had an idea for a sketch. He was lying on the covers, which meant I had a very nice view of a very nice body. There’s nothing quite like werewolves for drool-worthy physiques. Even if, like Jeremy, they don’t work out beyond their weekly run on four legs, they have the kind of metabolism for which I’d seriously consider sacrificing virgins. Jeremy has a runner’s body, hard and lean and definitely worth some drool.
I slipped out of my dress, then crawled into bed on his other side, being careful not to disturb him. He seemed to have frozen there, only the scratch of his pencil giving him away.
I resisted the urge to reach up and brush the hair from his neck. There wasn’t much to brush anyway. Normally haircuts are one of those annoying necessities Jeremy skips as long as possible, but he’d gotten it done for my shoot. He always did, since a reporter once noticed him at one of my shows and used “bohemian” in her description. He decided that he was getting a little old for the shaggy look. I disagree. I love it when his hair gets a little long, dark locks threaded with silver, hanging boyishly in his eyes and over his collar. Sexy as hell. But if it makes him self-conscious on a shoot, I keep my mouth shut and wait for it to grow out again.
The stylist—or, more likely, the local barber—had left a bit in the back, just a small lock that curled up, as if trying to hide. I wanted so badly to tug it out. But I kept still, resting there, until the pencil scratches stopped. He lifted his head and looked around, then craned over his shoulder to see me.
“When did you finish with…?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I shifted up and leaned over him. “Can I see?”
He handed me the sketchbook without hesitation. I remember shortly after I met him, catching him drawing and asking to see it. He’d deflected and slid the book back into his bag before I could ask again. I’d been hurt by that. I’d come to realize, though, that I’d been rude to ask—it was a work-in-progress. He shared those raw beginnings only with his Pack, only if they expressed an interest.
This new sketch was of the twins, in a forest,
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